


The Bees and the Girl

by miasmatrix



Series: All The King's Horses [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Marriage, Murder, Sussex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-18 05:53:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 21,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2337605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miasmatrix/pseuds/miasmatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting married is harder than it looks for reasons Sherlock hadn't expected. An ancient crime and a house in Sussex get in the way. Oh, and Mycroft, of course.</p><p>I felt like writing something fluffy for once, and this happened. Don't judge me. ;-)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It wasn't a daunting task, Sherlock thought, it was impossible. He sat at the desk, fighting the deja-vu, his head in his hands, and despaired. It was never going to work.  
  
"It's never going to work", he complained to John, who sat in his chair and read a book. He read. A book. How could he read a book when so much was at stake? Sherlock frowned as John finished the page and then, after placing a tail band, looked up at him and smiled. "What's never going to work?"  
  
"This", he said, exasperated. "Everything!"  
  
"That's very specific. Want some tea? I'll make some."  
  
"Tea? How can you make tea when-"  
  
"Especially when."  
  
"John!"  
  
"Yes. That's my name."  
  
Sherlock returned to his task with an exasperated sigh and was actually surprised when John, a little while later, placed a mug in front of him. And biscuits.   
  
"Biscuits. I'm not hungry, John, I-" I Sherlock started and looked up at John, who smiled and ran a hand through his hair. "Relax, love."  
  
"This isn't going to work."  
  
"It's going to be fine."  
  
"No, it's not. It has to be perfect, and it's not going to be perfect! I mean, look at the most obvious conundrum: We'll need witnesses. A best man. And a, a, another best man. We don't even have enough friends to - I don't have enough friends! Not enough to cover a wedding! Mary had more, and she didn't even exist three years before she married you. And time is running out, if we don't book soon, we won't be able to get a summer venue. Look, I tried to find a venue. But there are only so many venues we can use, and most of them look so much like the ones you and Mary... I don't want an imitation. This one, this is horribly overpriced. And this one is so ugly it looks like it's from the Big Book of Horrible Wedding Venues. And this-"  
  
Sherlock didn't get any further than this because he found his head in John's hands and John's lips on his, and though he struggled to talk around John's kiss, because this was important, it couldn't wait, John wouldn't have it. He kissed him until Sherlock kissed back and, yes, felt himself relax. With a huff, John let go of him and cradled his head against his chest. "Don't overthink. It'll be wonderful whatever we do."  
  
"I want it to be perfect."  
  
"Sherlock. Love. It will be."  
  
"We're running out of time. We already gave notice, I have to send out invitations-"  
  
"Invitations? To whom? I'll call my family, you'll call yours, we'll call our friends and meet at a place we like and get married. That's it. We can't have a religious ceremony anyway."  
  
"But, but your last-"  
  
"Exactly. I don't think I want it to be like my last wedding. I don't want this marriage to be like my last."  
  
At that, Sherlock looked up at John in disbelief, tried to compute what he'd said, because it was strangely flattering, even if in a sad way. "I thought you-"  
  
"Mary wanted a big thing. A statement"  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Sherlock. Do you want a statement?"  
  
He searched John's face for an answer, tried to deduce what he really wanted, if he was serious or if he only told him that because he thought Sherlock was about to snap. Which he was. "Sherlock? Are you trying to deduce what I want? I asked you what you want. Remember?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Yes. So. Think about what you want. Lots of people you hardly know shaking your hand and clapping your back and trying to locate the bride?"  
  
"No! God, no."  
  
"See. Neither do I. How about friends and family and colleagues and coffee and tea at a nice, safe place without any murders afterwards?"  
  
"There's this little country estate, they have a license, and they..."  
  
"Yes! There you go. See?"  
  
"Maybe a bit out of our price range..."  
  
"Let me see. Oh. Yes. Well. Maybe something less..."  
  
"Less..."  
  
"Less flamboyant?"  
  
"Yes. Definitely. Less."  
  
"Not sombre though. Nice. But not-"  
  
"Not too..."  
  
Sherlock looked at John in desperation, saw his jaw work, trying to come up with the words. "Look", John finally said, "I just want to marry you, it doesn't have to be a statement. Not that I'm ashamed, but - I'm not - I mean, look at me. Look at us. We need something suitable for a man who wears pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt at three in the afternoon and another who likes jumpers."  
  
Specifications. That Sherlock could work with. He nodded. "Pyjama bottoms and jumpers. Understood. I'll find something."

  
  
He did. Of course he did. But it turned out that this lead to another, more serious problem, one that couldn't be overcome by simply narrowing a web search: Fame.

  
After taking the tube and a train and a cab to look at a cosy little venue, Sherlock found someone had decided to leak the fact that he, Sherlock Holmes, was looking at a same-sex wedding venue. Apparently, this was hugely entertaining. At first, he hadn't even considered they were there for him and had thought to sneak past them and in, but when the throng of reporters rushed him, he realised his mistake. It was too late then, though, and he spent an uncomfortable thirty minutes discussing wedding options with a very flattered manager who lied through her teeth when she told him his secret was safe with her. He tried to sneak out the kitchen door but faced another group of considerably more experienced reporters and photographers who had anticipated his move. Even though he admired their determination, in a way, he ducked his head and fled.  
  
The next day, after breakfast, Sherlock made a conscious decision to spend the day moping on the sofa, his back turned to the room. John, thus ruining a perfectly good sulk, ruffled his hair and kissed his brow and his temple until Sherlock turned around and slung his arms around him and pulled him down for a hug and a proper kiss. John claimed he really had to go to work but he loved him very much and would bring takeaway, and Sherlock told him he loved him, kissed him again and noticed his mood had lifted. Sherlock grinned, but then he perked up like a dog when he heard the clamour downstairs as John left the flat, heard camera flashes go off and heard them holler after John as he unlocked his bike and drove off.  
A little while later, the same happened to Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock drew a blanket over himself and stared at the much-studied texture of his sofa, unable to think of a solution.  
  
John battled the same crowd of reporters when he came home from work with takeaway and the papers. A whole lot of them, actually. Sherlock was very confused until he noticed the headlines. "Sleuth marries his doctor", "Gay wedding of the year", "Playing doctor at Baker Street", "Sir Shag-a-lot shags on". Complete with a photo of him at the venue.

"This is an outrage", Sherlock said.

"I think this is a really nice photo of you actually", John remarked and distributed rice and poppadums.

"It's horrible."

"Would you like curry too?"

"John, how can you be so calm?"

Stoically, John set the table.

"John!"

"Sherlock."

"This is horrible. I'm sorry."

"What for? I'm marrying a celebrity."

"We're gay celebrities."

"Yes. I guess we are."

Sherlock gaped at John, speechless. John dropped what he was doing, went over to Sherlock and kissed his head. "Sherlock. I don't care what they say about us. Not anymore. And admit it, I mean, yeah. It's true. And it's nothing to be ashamed of."

"You weren't always so..."

"No. I wasn't. But that changed."

Sherlock picked at his curry. "John... This - this means we'll spend that day surrounded by paparazzi and reporters."

"I know. We'll think of something. You'll think of something. You always do."

When no reply came, John looked up from his curry and saw Sherlock's stricken expression. He looked pale and... sad. John dropped his fork and placed his hand on Sherlock's. "Sherlock. Listen. Nobody is going to take that away from us. This is going to be great."

"But I-"

"Sherlock. I know it will be. I know it. Trust me."


	2. Chapter 2

The problem was that Sherlock trusted John, but not himself. He spent days discreetly looking for venues, but always someone beat him to it. Once the press had found out, he was under a surveillance more thorough than anything Mycroft would have managed. Even the one time he spent a lot of effort on an elaborate disguise, someone found out. Sherlock suspected the assistant had been persuaded by a healthy bribe because frankly, his disguise was perfect. And so, thwarted again and again, he turned increasingly desperate, but there was nothing he could do but anticipate their moves and act, only to find out there was no escape.  
He stopped eating. He sulked on the sofa. John was there, immovable, optimistic because he couldn't see how futile their efforts were, and how they'd never, never get the wedding they both so deserved. John didn't know, and he wouldn't tell him, couldn't ruin his good mood. He barely noticed when John slipped a cuff around his arm and took his blood pressure, and he thought it a major annoyance when John made him step on the bathroom scales.

"You lost weight", John remarked. "That's bad." He tsked and typed on his phone, his face scrunched up in a frown. Sherlock returned to the sofa and his sulk with the grace of a beaten dog and sighed like one when John tucked him in and stroked his hair with the patience of a saint.

When the triple murders popped up the next day, he was almost relieved and very close to abandoning the entire marriage idea altogether. A sombre and short civil partnership ceremony in Mycroft's office sounded almost attractive, but then he thought it through and felt his stomach clench. No. They deserved better.

 

Like triple murders. Lestrade approached him very, very carefully, almost crept into their flat and clutched the folder to his chest. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "I can't be bothered", Sherlock said, and John snorted.

"What? John!"

"It's a triple murder plus locked room mystery. And you're telling me you can't be bothered. Sherlock."

"I'm planning our wedding."

"You're the most brilliant man on earth. Or so you keep telling me. Don't tell me planning a wedding keeps you from solving a crime."

There was something to that, Sherlock had to admit, and of course, once he'd seen the photographs of three open graves in a backyard, he'd been thrilled. Yes. This was fascinating. Guiltily, the looked at John, who threw his hands up in exasperation. "Go! Run. You're a nuisance anyway." Sherlock threw stuff in his overnight bag, slung his scarf around him, kissed John and left, and he was so glad to get away from paparazzi and the press that he even suffered being whisked away in a police car.

 

Anderson leered. There was no other way to describe it, and Sherlock had the fleeting feeling he'd made a horrible mistake. He knew why he wouldn't normally share a car with Anderson and the rest of the crew. But Anderson sat next to him in the back of the car, looked at him and leered.

"What is it?" he asked finally.

"Uh, nothing."

"Do I have something on my face?"

"No?"

"Anderson", Lestrade warned. Lestrade rode shotgun and glared at them both over his shoulder as if Sherlock had been the one looking at him weirdly.

"I just thought", Anderson started, and Sherlock was about to make remark about thinking and Anderson when he got distracted by the press motorbike catching up.

"I just thought, if you, you know, don't have a best man yet, I thought I..."

"The best man or witness needs to be mentally capable of understanding the process and the vows spoken, I'm not sure you qualify", Sherlock said lightly.

Anderson laughed as if Sherlock had made an exceptional joke. That gave Sherlock pause. He couldn't be serious about that, could he? Oh no. He was.

"Philip", he started, and choked. Was he about to apologize to Anderson? He guessed he was. "I... I already asked Molly, I mean, she's been... and I was..." Sherlock stopped, mortified by his own trepidation.

"Molly. No, no, I understand. That makes sense."

"You could be, I don't know..."

"Ring bearer", Lestrade rumbled. "With a little collar and a bow, you know, like these dogs people-"

"Boss!" Anderson protested, and then they laughed, and that was that.

 

It took Sherlock about two hours to realise they had long left London and were approaching Greater Ruralshire, fast, and that the day had worn on. He also recalled he hadn't even invited Anderson yet. That was odd. Why did he expect to be invited? Without a tangible invitation, he of all people wouldn't assume... or would he? Anderson had never doubted him, Sherlock knew, but then, they also shared a history of insults and - had Anderson never taken those seriously at all? Sherlock had been serious about that, he still despised him sometimes, a little, but then, he despised most people really.  
But - where were they taking him? He caught Lestrade gaze at him in the side view mirror and narrowed his eyes. Something was up.

"Lestrade", he said, "Where exactly are we going?"

"I'm very sorry about my role in all this", Anderson said.

"I'm not", he heard Lestrade say even as the driver slammed on the brakes and Sherlock was thrown into the seat belt which tightened and restrained him, and he almost didn't feel the tell-tale pinprick of a needle in his neck. He only had time to raise his hand and look at Anderson in wide-eyed astonishment before the world went dark.

 

A brief moment of consciousness was accompanied by the sensation of bumping against something. It was entirely dark. And claustrophobic, he lifted a hand and found a structure like a triangle. The boot of a car? Yes. No question. He felt betrayal and horror well up in him like bile and lost consciousness again.

Another brief moment, fresh air, which he gulped in. A blinding light in his eyes. Voices. Calm and perfunctory. A hand on his brow. Something soft under his head, then a door. Slammed shut. A car. Silence. Wait, he thought, you can't just leave me here. He had no idea where here was, though, and if he wanted to be with the people who had left. John, he thought. John. He'd be so disappointed.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock woke up with the worst hangover he'd had in years. He opened one eye experimentally and left the other shut for the moment when he saw there was light outside his head, probably morning from the way the light slanted into the hut. And a hut it was, a hunting cabin probably, rough wooden floor and rough wooden walls and small windows through which light fell on where he lay, on his side, like a mortally wounded deer. Only that deer usually didn't get a camping mat and a pillow. Oh, and their coat spread over them.

Carefully, he stood. That worked fine so far. He checked his coat pockets for his phone but found not only did he not have his phone, but his wallet had vanished as well. To be expected. Or was it? He recalled the events that had lead him here, and he seemed to recall it had been Anderson and Lestrade and a junior Scotland Yard agent as their driver who had put him here, in this position. He couldn't quite process that. Not that Anderson and he had been that close, only recently had they built up something like a rapport, but Lestrade? Sherlock winced and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. That didn't make any sense. He'd never endanger him. But he had. Had drugged him and put him in the boot of their car and abandoned him here.  
Sherlock felt his world view shift to accommodate the fact that Lestrade might not be a friend after all, and he balked. No. If he questioned that, nothing was safe.

John. John would be so worried by now. He'd probably try to come after him. Try to find out where he went. He'd ask Lestrade, and if Lestrade wasn't on their side anymore... But whose side was he on then? Was this some game by Mycroft? But to what effect? And if it wasn't Mycroft, if it was someone even more sinister, then John would be in danger. The thought almost made him double over.

Sherlock gave himself a mental shake. First things first. Get your bearings. Get out. 

The front door wasn't locked, but what nearly made him question if he was truly awake was the picnic basket sitting on the porch just outside the door. He opened it to find a Thermos flask with hot tea, another with cold milk, several rolls and jam and butter and crockery. All wrapped up in a chequered red and white picnic blanket. That was so weird, so out of place here in the middle of the forest that he questioned his sanity. He approached the basket warily, aware this might be a trap, and sniffed the contents before coming back to himself and accepting the weirdness as it was. And he was hungry.  
The tea was so hot it must have been brewed not an hour ago, even though the Thermos was obviously quite good. Good tea, too. He poured himself a cup and sat down on the bench outside the hut, sipping and surveying his surroundings. Nothing but trees and birdsong and car tracks.

Car tracks. He eyed them carefully over the rim of his cup of tea, aware that he was most likely being watched, though he couldn't yet tell how. He wasn't at home here, this wasn't his turf. John would be able to tell him more, might be able to identify the tracks the car had ploughed into the fresh black soil. Might make sense of the forest and the abundance of life, the birds with their incessant chirping that hurt his head and shoved meaning down his brain, get out of here, my territory, my mate, hello friend, feed me mom, strange dark beast lurking on the ground. He glowered at them and they didn't care.  
The tea had restored him somewhat. He was hungry. He dug in the basket for rolls and a knife and buttered a roll and spread jam over it when he saw the small packet at the bottom of the basket. He started, picked it up and laughed. Aspirin. Someone had added aspirin to his care package. Someone who knew he'd have a headache had cared enough to add aspirin. Or maybe this was just a cruel joke and it wasn't aspirin... The blister seemed untouched though, and his headache was so bad he popped three, just under a gram, and swallowed them with tea. He ate two rolls, and nothing at all happened. Birds sang, bees buzzed, and the headache receded.

"Weird", Sherlock said. But there was nothing else to do. He took the two remaining rolls, mixed tea and milk in the bigger Thermos, wrapped it all in the blanket and stuffed the blunt knife into his pocket. The he headed out, following the tracks. It most certainly was a trap, but he had no choice.

The car tracks meandered through the forest, following an old maintenance road that in turn followed an old trade route, something he deduced from the ancient stones paving the tracks here and there. It lead through dense beech and oak forest and past small clearings where fern grew up to his thigh and brambles caught his legs. After an hour or two, he settled into the routine of walking and felt the tension recede, knew he was doing all he could to get out of the forest and somewhere he could call for help. Or a trap, somewhere someone wanted him to be. But that had to be seen, that couldn't be helped now. And so he walked.

He thought it was about noon when he stopped and ate the remaining two rolls and drank half of what was left of his tea. The headache was entirely gone now. He found a spring and washed his hands and his face and drank his fill, and then he set out again.  
He walked and walked and walked, and he talked to John and Lestrade and Molly and even to Janine and Stamford, but mostly to John. At first it was boredom, but then he realised he missed John. They hadn't been apart much these last months. With nothing else to occupy his mind but the car tracks and a rather dull forest with trees all very much alike and very, well, inert, he went over conversations with John and their time spent together and how they'd evolved, how they'd turned into something they'd somehow always been but hadn't known. He knew he smiled. John could do that even when he wasn't there because he always was there, of course, on those rare occasions he wasn't foremost on his mind, he ran a task in the back of his mind. He'd marry him, properly, as he deserved, and with his help, Sherlock would somehow turn into... But no. That way lay something vile and deadly. John loved him just the way he was. And even if he didn't believe it, he had to pretend he did until someday, somehow, he'd be able to convince himself of that.

 

The edge of the forest was so abrupt he almost stumbled out into the open unprepared. He'd been lost in a reverie of John, worried and frantic at home in London, and how he would hug him and tell him he'd been so, so worried, and then the forest ended. Sherlock dropped into a crouch behind a big leafy pungent elderberry shrub.  
The tracks went through a wooden gate and into a pasture and from then on towards a mansion at the end of the pasture. The meadow seemed empty, but the droppings spoke of its bovine inhabitants. The mansion was both his only hope of getting back to London, he knew, and the most likely trap. Sherlock's hand closed around the blunt knife in his pocket. Well. He'd find out.

He climbed the gate and tried not to run across the pasture. Just keep a calm, steady pace as if you belong here, as if nothing at all is wrong, as if you're totally in control. There was no movement he could see down at the mansion, a big grey monster of a house. He only saw its rear, though, the northern side with doors that had formerly been used by the help and livestock. Something this grand had to have a sweeping entrance and a spectacular garden in front.  
But the kitchen door suited him just fine. He reached the building unnoticed and was about to knock when he simply put a hand on the door and found it open. It swung wide when he pushed it, revealing, indeed, a kitchen. Utterly deserted, but not for long, the stoves were on and someone had even left a frying pan on the stove which he shoved aside. Very weird. His entrance had been noticed after all.

Sherlock crept through the kitchen and thought about getting another knife, but he still wasn't sure what to make of this. He found a corridor and followed it. There was a flickering light at the end of it, and he followed it into a large, dark room. The windows were shuttered, a tall screen at the end of the hall provided the only illumination. He could just make out chairs and a desk, and the green smell of fresh flowers filled the air. Pictures flickered across the screen, at first he thought they cycled through what he thought to be random scenes of the surrounding forest, but then he noticed the cabin he'd woken up in, a view of his camping mat and the porch, then a stretch of nondescript forest, then the spring where he'd stopped, the lawn, the kitchen, the corridor. Sherlock set his jaw. Someone had followed his every move. This was too close to what Magnussen had done. He took a step back and bumped into a chair with a crash everyone in the mansion would have heard. Movement in front of the screen made him reach for his pathetic little knife.

 

"Hello, Sherlock."

Sherlock reeled. He'd expected anything, but not this. "John."

John stood and smiled at him. "Hey."

"What..."

"I think you might want to get dressed."

"Dressed."

"Yes. You're expected in a morning coat at four. By my side."

"John?"

The screen, the very screen on which John had probably watched him the entire day, vanished into the ceiling, and the shutters opened to allow golden sunlight into the hall. Chairs, yes. Flowers. Lots of both. John walked over and pushed his hands under Sherlock's coat, hugged him closely and pressed a kiss on his neck. "We'll get married here."

"Married. Here." He looked around properly then and adjusted his perspective. The potential crime scene turned upside down and into a wedding venue, already tastefully decorated in a style he would have picked. He cleared his throat. "John, you... You used me as a decoy? You abducted me?"

"Yes, well", John admitted, drawing back so he could see his face, "When it became clear you couldn't go anywhere anymore without a throng of press following you, we came up with this idea. It's still your planning. With everyone's attention centred on you, we booked this and prepared."

"Who's we?"

"Everyone. Lestrade, Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson. Molly, of course. Janine. Stamford. Family of course. Everyone but you, basically."

"You abducted me. You drugged me."

"Yeah. We're even now, right?"

"But why..."

"I thought you might like the excitement. I guess it did take your thoughts off things." John beamed at him when he said it, entirely too proud of himself. Sherlock felt his face morph into a wild grin. "You-", he said, but couldn't finish the sentence, the urge to kiss John was stronger, and so he kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him, and only when he drew back, breathless, he noticed the room had filled with people. Family. Friends. Colleagues. So many of them the room seemed small. And all of them drew close and touched and hugged him, even while he held John, and it was claustrophobic and crowded, but somehow, that was fine.


	4. Chapter 4

Their room was spacious and lovely, and Sherlock's morning coat waited on a hanger in front of the armoire in the corner like a portent. John closed the door on the friendly noises outside and busied himself with his own preparations. He shot Sherlock a glance. For once, there wasn't a lot they could say. It felt fragile, this moment, it seemed fluid, as if about to tip over into another stream of reality, and Sherlock found he looked forward to that branch tremendously. He showered, shaved, and dressed, slowly, memorising everything about it. The last time he had donned the coat had been a sadder day. He'd thought he had lost John forever and had left the wedding early.  John must have seen something on his face because he hugged him from behind and nuzzled his neck and whispered: "This is ours. This is us."  
  
Sherlock only nodded. John rested his cheek against Sherlock's back and held him like that until he'd dressed, and only then did John turn him around, he checked his appearance, tugged at a stray strand of curly hair and gave up when it returned to its position with Sherlockian stubbornness. He looked great, John thought, tall and fit and beautiful in morning dress and just flushed enough to make him want to kiss him, which he did for a long time until Sherlock all but shoved him away with an exasperated: "John! It's time."

"Yes", John said, "It's time."  
  
John shook his head. How different this was from last time. Sherlock was excited, of course he was, he was brimming with energy and strode into the hall like he owned the place, and all John could do was keep up, as always. He looked great, he looked proud, his eyes shone when he looked at John, and he walked past family and friends with a look that told John he took it all in and stored it, and that this would get a prominent place in Sherlock's mind palace. John caught his hand and held it when they approached the desk, and his hand was warm and closed around John's firmly. They stood and faced each other, Sherlock's hands in John's, and John knew that this was what a partner was like, another being who was just as excited to be his as he was to be his. They said their vows and exchanged rings, and John's voice didn't break, and he was proud of that. Sherlock blushed like a schoolboy when he kissed him in front of the congregation. And Mrs. Hudson cried. Of course she did. And so did Sherlock's mother.  
  
If John had expected Sherlock not to like to be the centre of soppy attention, he'd been proven wrong - for once, Sherlock thrived on it, he seemed to actually enjoy the clumsy speech by Stamford and the funny, tearful speech by Molly and the never-ending toasts, he sat through all of that with a grace he hadn't expected. But he loved him all the more for it. They danced. Sherlock's covert dancing lessons had finally paid off, and he looked so adorable, flushed and happy and carefree that John felt like taking him upstairs right away and only didn't because this time, he wanted him to stay until the end of the party. His party. He hugged him then, hard, and Sherlock spun him around and held him tightly and kissed his temple and whispered: "I love you so much", and John drowned in his touch and his low voice as Sherlock told him about all the things he'd seen today and how this, this last thing, was so much better than everything he'd ever done before. But, John thought, that wasn't the end of it, and late that night, when their guests started retiring to their rooms in force, he looked at Sherlock and took his hand and lead him upstairs, his heart hammering in his chest. Sherlock let himself be lead, and John marvelled how this could be new and exciting after all they'd done. He closed the door, and the last music and laughter downstairs faded, and he suddenly felt the weight of this new intimacy, although it felt like soaring on an updraught.  
  
  
"So", Sherlock said. "Our wedding night."

"Yes. So", John said and placed his coat on a hanger.

"It is customary to consummate a marriage. Actually, I think it's pretty much mandatory", Sherlock said, suddenly standing very close to John.

"I don't think there's any virginity left in either of us", John laughed.

"There is, actually. Our first night as a married couple."

"Married. Christ", John managed. The morning coat felt stifling all of a sudden, and he opened his collar, avoiding Sherlock's eyes.

"John", Sherlock said, and the way he said it, the way - John thought he'd never heard his simple name said that way before Sherlock said it. He stared at his feet, wondered how to go on, how did you go on when something this momentous had just happened? "John", Sherlock said again and lifted a hand to John's face, almost touched him but let his hand fall before he'd reached him. "We don't have to. I meant it more as a... I don't know. I-"

John took Sherlock's hand and lightly held on to his fingers. "You look good. That suit is- it looks good on you."

Sherlock winced and withdrew his hand, took half a step back. "Thank you", he said finally. "You look good, too."

"No I don't", John laughed. "Not compared to you."

"Yes, you do. You look wonderful", Sherlock said earnestly. He took off his coat and placed it on a hanger. "Now that we both reaffirmed our mutual attraction, I think I'll-" He didn't get any closer because John was there, closed the distance and drew him in for a hug.

"I love you so much", John huffed. "I love you so, so much."

Sherlock breathed against his neck, a long, drawn-out exhale, and the tension fled from his body as he wrapped his arms around John and held him close. "It's been a long day, John, if you don't want to..."  
John didn't say anything, just held on and closed his eyes. He felt Sherlock move and then his lips on his brow and his eyes and his nose and then the lightest brush of lips on his and he couldn't tell where one of them started and the other began, all he knew was they were close, so close, tangled up in each other and kissing, lightly at first and then with a passion that surprised John. That he could be surprised after all they'd done, but this did, how Sherlock managed to hold him so close while kissing, how he, for once, kept him safe and took him apart all the same.  
"I want to", John managed.  
"I know", Sherlock smiled around a kiss. John tried to be patient, tried not to rip the clothes off Sherlock, he tugged at his shirt impatiently anyway and pushed his hands underneath as soon as he could, spread his hands flat on Sherlock's skin, was only half aware of Sherlock opening his own shirt until his naked skin brushed against Sherlock's vest. And somehow felt exposed just as it felt safe. "You are -", he tried, but he lost the train of thought because Sherlock was everything. Everything.  
"Come", Sherlock said and laid him down and John thought that this had been different back then, Sherlock hadn't known, hadn't even known how to get their clothes off, hadn't known how to make it so that John's body rose to meet him wherever he touched him. "We were friends once", John said, hopelessly lost in the slide of Sherlock's skin against his, and Sherlock cupped John's face in his hands and pressed his brow against his, his eyes soft and black. "My love", he said, "My love", and nothing more when John caught his mouth and drew him down and held on to him, moved with him and dug into his back and thought he'd never get enough of this, could never get used to Sherlock's breathless urgency, so unlike him and still so natural, a retreating and an undoing and an unwinding that went so far he vanished in the act and crystallized in ecstasy, and just before his own climax drowned his mind, John thought how he did everything completely, and how in this very moment, he was his entirely.  
  
  
They lay like that for a while, unable, unwilling to move. Sherlock had collapsed on John's chest, completely tangled into him, and breathed into John's hair. John stroked his sweat-slicked back and wondered again how this had happened, how he had ended up underneath another man, his heart so big in his chest it felt like it might burst. He was perfectly content like this for once, Sherlock a heavy, sweaty weight on top of him, boneless and sprawled and achingly familiar now. He rubbed his head against Sherlock's, and Sherlock grunted and said: "Want me to move?"

"No. Never. Don't ever get up ever again", John said and held him tighter.

"Hyperbole."

"Maybe a bit exaggerated, yeah."

Without moving at all, Sherlock nibbled at John's hair, as far as he could reach.

"Before I fall asleep and smother you", Sherlock said, "I want it known I don't regret a single thing."

"Before you fall asleep and smother me", John said, "I want it known I regret not marrying you earlier."

Well, there's that."

"But we figured it out."

"We did."

"Short trip to the bathroom?"

"Short trip to the bathroom."  
  
Back in bed in record time, they burrowed into each other underneath the sheets. "I'm glad this wasn't our first time", Sherlock said.

"Hm? Why?"

"Because we know exactly how to configure to achieve maximum comfort afterwards", he said and jostled John until maximum comfort was achieved with maximum skin contact.

"I love you, you idiot", John said, his heart about to burst.

"I love you too", Sherlock said with a smile and fell asleep.  
  
  
Sherlock woke up in the middle of the night and felt the mild disorientation you sometimes feel when the room you see at waking doesn't fit your expectation, and tried to recall where he was. But then he became aware of John next to him, and decided he didn't care where he was, as long as John was there. His husband. His breath caught. He hadn't known. He hadn't known you could feel so secure. Very softly, he kissed John's brow and fell asleep with his nose in John's hair.


	5. Chapter 5

By next morning, Sherlock knew why couples usually left for their honeymoon immediately, the amount of leering and lewd remarks they encountered during breakfast was absolutely stunning. They'd slept in and hit the breakfast room late, but it seemed everyone else had as well. Sherlock was too happy and too relaxed by far to care and even sat down with his extended family after a bit of prodding by John. It could have been awkward but it wasn't, which John appreciated greatly. Mycroft, immaculate in his three-piece suit, nudged an envelope across the table towards John and Sherlock, who were too busy holding hands underneath the table to open it right away. But John, as always, was too polite to ignore it entirely, and so they opened it at the table.

"Sussex. Really."

"Brother dear. I have it on tape. You wanted a holiday home in Sussex", Mycroft retorted.

"Isn't a honeymoon usually somewhere nice and warm? Somewhere without clothes?" enquired Sherlock's mother innocently. Mycroft blushed.

"It's not the vacation", he said, snide. "It's the entire place."

"Oh", Mrs. Holmes said. "It's Uncle Edward's old cottage, isn't it! Mycroft, how nice of you!"

"How nice of you indeed", said Sherlock, though it didn't sound like it.

"Uncle Edward?"

"Our great-uncle. It's where the Holmes family saying 'like a home in Sussex' comes from, meaning something of very little practical use."

"Well, that's - nice?" John tried. "A bit excessive? Thank you."

Mycroft stood and nodded. "Mother. Father. John, have your husband ready to travel in an hour. The car will wait for you outside, but not too long."

"Will it. I wonder what will happen should we miss it. God beware we would have to go back to London", Sherlock said and flinched when John punched him.

"Thank you. Mycroft. Seriously. Thank you. That's a very nice gift."

Mycroft searched John's face for signs of sarcasm and couldn't find any, which probably disturbed him even more than sarcasm would have.

 

"So, this is it."

"Yes. This is it."

"This. This is our home in Sussex now."

"It would seem so, wouldn't it", Sherlock said and climbed the stairs to the quaint little cottage, newly whitewashed with a thatched roof, tucked in between the sea and a sandy slope covered in heath. A gull screamed, and oystercatchers fed their chick on the beach. John squinted against the sun and the glaring contrast of seaside summer idyll and Sherlock, wearing his dark coat and a frown.

"Don't get your hopes up", Sherlock said, fiddling with the keys. "It might look nice from the outside, but it's a dump. Mycroft clearly intended it to be our punishment."

"The garden is nice." It was, all roses and heather and sedge surrounded by a stone wall.

"Yes, there's that. Sorry about the interior though-" Sherlock's voice trailed off when the door swung open and he looked inside. John craned his neck to catch a glimpse behind him, but Sherlock blocked the low door effectively. "Oh."

"What is it? Is it bad? We can always get a B&B somewhere and leave for London tomorrow if you- oh."

Clearly, Uncle Edward's old cottage had changed. A lot. The white-washed walls were still there, the wooden beams, the stone floor, and the open fireplace, but all of it carefully renovated and polished and sparsely and tastefully furnished. John dropped his bag and strolled over to the tall doors facing the sea, pushed them open and let the scent and the roll of the sea in. A small kitchen and a staircase, presumably to an upstairs bedroom, completed the cottage.

"This is beautiful", John said. Sherlock stared.

 

There was a bottle of wine and a card on the coffee table. John opened the card with some trepidation, but after he'd read the first lines, he decided to read it to Sherlock.

"From Mycroft."

"Not sure I want to read that."

"Yes. You want to. Here: 'Dear John and Sherlock, congratulations again on your union. May it stand the test of time and may you never falter in your love. To say I envy you would imply I miss something but certainly, I congratulate you, and I say it with conviction and no scorn at all: You deserve each other. You also deserve this. It's yours, paid for and maintained. May it prove a safe haven for both of you in years to come, and may there be many. Ever yours, Mycroft'"

John put the card down. "Sherlock. This is wonderful."

"A safe haven. This place is under surveillance."

"Of course it is. Everything is. But Sherlock... This is a wonderful gift."

For a while, Sherlock just stood, facing the sea and the sounds of nature outside. Far off to the right, children played with a kite at the beach, and a breeze ruffled his hair. "Yes", he said finally. "Yes, it is."

Someone had stocked the fridge and the larder, and Sherlock whipped up dinner while John unpacked and marvelled at the clean lines of their bedroom, the tiny study, and the sleek efficiency of their bathroom. The cottage was five decades ahead of their flat in London, he thought while he looked out to the sea from the dormer upstairs. The smell of dinner lured him down, and Sherlock looked so wonderful he stepped close and hugged him from behind.  
"You're very useful today", Sherlock said, his voice impossibly deep. John leaned over and kissed his cheek, his arms crossed in front of Sherlock's chest while Sherlock struggled to turn the omelette. "This is going to burn."  
"Let it", John said, but he was hungry, and he eased his grip on Sherlock a little. Sherlock smiled and dragged him with him as he finished his preparations. They ate on the terrace, outside, while the sun set, and then they lit a candle and sat on their terrace for a while longer until John thought Sherlock was about to nod off and took him upstairs, where the bed proved wide and cosy and Sherlock not that tired after all.


	6. Chapter 6

He found the beehives the next day. When the house had been refurbished, much had been transferred to the shed on the far side of the lot, past the lawn (that mainly consisted of sand and sedge) and the rose bushes. That's where lawn chairs were kept and the small boat and things that were too weird to bring into the house and too nice to throw away, like small African statues and flotsam turned into art only the artist could love. And an array of big empty boxes Sherlock couldn't place immediately. But then he recalled his great-uncle had kept bees, and it had come back. He brushed dust and cobwebs off the boxes and carried one of them outside. It still smelled faintly of wax and honey, the frames still held a bit of wax produced by bees long dead, and a few unlucky insects had gathered at the bottom. He scooped them up and studied their dessicated little bodies, probably dead decades and so light he didn't feel them.

"Hey, Sherlock. Find anything?"

John strolled over to the shed in - shorts? With an exasperated frown, Sherlock returned the small bodies to their former home and closed the lid. "Shorts? Seriously? John. You're letting yourself go. Already!"

"And you haven't even see the ones I brought for you yet", John grinned.

Sherlock tsk'ed and pulled him close and nosed his hair that smelled of summer and sea and salt and John. "Are you sniffing me", John laughed and tried to pull away, ticklish.

"Hmm. You smell of sun."

"You smell of dust."

"A metaphor if there ever was one."

"Are those beehives?"

"Uncle Edward kept bees, yes."

"That's nice."

"Think so?"

"Yeah, it's fascinating, don't you think?" John ducked out of Sherlock's embrace and moved over to inspect the hive. "I bet this is a great location to keep bees."

"Why would one keep bees?"

"For honey? Hey, look, here's everything. This pipe-like thing you use to calm them with. Gloves. And a hat with a veil."

"You can buy honey. Besides, why would anyone want to eat bee vomit?"

"Oh Sherlock", John laughed and dragged him with him. "Come. We'll go and explore the surroundings today."

"It's really dull out here, John. This is Sussex."

"Doesn't matter. This is our second home now. Aren't you the least bit curious?"

"Down there", Sherlock pointed, "Is our nearest neighbour. They're not here. Probably in London where there's actually something happening. There, the village. That's a euphemism, of course, it's basically a tourist trap with a supermarket and a pub or two. There, the sea. There, hills. Done! Explored."  
Instead of a response, John took Sherlock's head between his hands and kissed him. "Sounds fantastic! Let's start with the sea and hit the pub later."

"That's not what I-"

"I know", John grinned and started down towards the beach. This time, it was Sherlock's turn to follow.

 

Sherlock couldn't remember a time when John had smiled as much as he did now. He smiled when they walked down to the beach, smiled when he showed Sherlock the oystercatcher chicks on the beach that huddled under their parent's wings, and he laughed when he took Sherlock's hand and dragged him down to the water, splashing barefoot in the spray. The sun was golden in his hair and his eyes seemed more blue than usual which shouldn't be possible but somehow was. I did this, Sherlock thought, I made him happy. And he caught up with him and pounced on him and kissed his sun-scented skin and his mouth, and all conscious thought left him when John responded with an enthusiasm that left him breathless. Just when he thought he'd make him turn around and back to the cottage, John drew back and smiled and slapped him on the rump and said: "Come. Let's see where that path leads."  
Sherlock hadn't even noticed a path, he'd been so focused on John. But there it was, a narrow path that lead up from the beach and through dry grassland into a copse.

"Probably someone else's property", Sherlock mused.

"You said there's nothing in that direction."

"Even I have been known to be wrong now and then."

"Come, don't be lazy", John said, eyes flashing in mirth and challenge. With a snort, he followed John up the path.

 

The sound of the sea was immediately muted by fir and pine trees, and the sun lost its sting. Sherlock glanced up at the canopy of needles above through which the sky shone blue, and the scent of pine and heather tickled his nose.

"Is there a point to this?"

"Exploration, Sherlock."

John jogged up the path with an ease Sherlock couldn't help but admire, as with everything he did, it wasn't graceful, and he more than made up for that with strength. The path lead up to a bare knoll, not very high, but with a good view over the immediate surroundings. John stopped there and looked down on their new home, his eyes blazing. He hugged Sherlock fiercely and then pulled him down to sit on a fallen log placed there by someone who had also admired the view.

"And the point of this is...?" Sherlock asked, but his heart wasn't in it because there was John next to him, his arm around Sherlock and his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"No point whatsoever", John sighed and rubbed his head against Sherlock's cheek.

"I love you", Sherlock said and wrapped an arm around him, drew him near and sat like that, listening to the faint swell of the sea and the birds in the copse.

"This would make a good running trail", John said.

"Running."

"Yeah. Thought while we're here, I could do some training."

"You don't expect me to-"

"God, no. I expect you to sulk on the sofa while I'm out getting back in shape."

"Healthy expectations are the cornerstones of a happy marriage", Sherlock lectured.

John's grip on him tightened. "Christ."

"Hm?"

"We're married." He turned to Sherlock and beamed. "We're married."

"Almost two days now. Any regrets yet?"

"No. You?"

"No."

John laughed, and that was the most beautiful thing Sherlock had ever heard.


	7. Chapter 7

On their way back, Sherlock heard the buzzing. It was faint, but insistent, and it reminded him of electricity. A generator? It was a steady hum that came from inside the copse somewhere. He veered off and only half heard John's protests. Dry twigs cracked under his feet while he followed the noise that swelled and ebbed. It sounded organic, somehow, but - weird.

"Oh. Look at that."

John had to be more accustomed to the natural world than him, Sherlock thought as he followed John into a clearing, he hadn't noticed that at all. And it was huge.

"What is that", he said, but it became clear as he approached - a massive throng of bees hung from a low dry branch of a massive more than half-dead oak. "What are they doing there?"

"Swarming, I think", John said. "I've seen pictures. A young queen leaves with part of the hive to find a new home."

"Like that hollow tree."

"Possibly. Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"We should call a beekeeper, I'm sure someone's after them already."

"Why would anyone-"

"I think that's how you get a new hive, by catching one that swarms. At least that's how it used to be."

"Sounds dangerous."

"Yeah..."

They stood and watched, the hum of the swarm deep and soothing. Almost hypnotic.

 

"We should call the police", Sherlock said suddenly.

"I'm sure that's not necessary, they look quite harmless and they're far from-"

"Not for the bees. For the body", Sherlock said and stepped closer to the tree. "Look."

John looked, and Sherlock felt a sharp pang of regret as the sense of wonder and amazement faded and made way for the familiar expression of resigned compassion he always wore in the presence of a body. In that moment, Sherlock hated the body for being dead and being here, of all places, when all they'd wanted was... but that couldn't be helped. Oblivious to the bees, Sherlock ducked down to scrutinize the body. It was small and almost mummified, it looked ancient. Someone had wedged it into the hollow of the tree, and it lay there like a doll someone had forgotten after a long day of play. "Very small. A child. Probably a girl. Six years old maybe? Eight? John?"

"Hard to say. We need a coroner for that."

"Her dress..."

"Fifties? Forties? She couldn't have been here all this time."

Sherlock almost touched the skin but shrank back. It looked like parchment stretched over dry bones, brittle, only held together by her dress.

"I think she could have." Sherlock rose and flinched when he brushed against the swarm that had lead them there, expecting to be stung, but the insects he'd brushed off only got their bearings back and headed back to the swarm, single-mindedly tending to their task.

"They're entirely docile", Sherlock said in wonder.

"Get away from there anyway. Please. Sherlock."

"Do you have your phone?"

"No, left it at the cottage. Promise me?"

"Promise what?"

"That you let the police handle this?"

"A sixty year old murder? Not likely."

"Murder."

"Of course it is, John. Haven't you seen the hole in her skull?"

He was right, of course, John encountered as he ducked below the bees to see, both about the cause of death and the bees.

 

John jogged back to the cottage and called the police. How ironic, he thought, a sixty or seventy year old corpse shows up just as Sherlock and he went on vacation. They must be cursed. He dialled in and waited for them back at the driveway, and when they showed up, two men too young to be dealing with murder, he knew they hadn't taken him seriously. "So, a body", the older one said. "Sir, are you sure the bones you found are human?"

John smiled, very grateful Sherlock wasn't here to deal with these two. "I am very sure, yes. If you will follow me?"

He had to hand it to them, though - the way one of them walked with him and the other hung back in case he did anything weird, that was professional.  
Sherlock and the bees hadn't moved. The two young officers blanched when they say the little girl's body, and one of them called for backup. And a bee-keeper. The other one glared at Sherlock, who smirked and said: "Don't look at me. I have an alibi for circa 1950."


	8. Chapter 8

"That was Lestrade on the phone", John said.

"Of course."

"He says: 'Don't worry about it and enjoy your honeymoon'."

"I am, actually", Sherlock said, stapling his fingers. Nothing ever changes, John thought, he always finds a sofa to sulk on and a ceiling to stare at. He walked over and kissed his brow, which didn't break his concentration at all.

"Sherlock."

"Hm?"

"You're not letting this go, are you?"

"A little girl got killed, John."

"Sixty years ago."

"Which doesn't make it less of a crime."

"No, it doesn't."

John lifted Sherlock's legs and sat down on the sofa, Sherlock's feet in his lap. He slid a hand into Sherlock's trouser leg and around his calf. "Well. Then you'll probably be interested in knowing that she's a girl, obviously, between ten and twelve, small for her age, in poor health when she died, several healed fractures in her arms and legs. Cause of death: blunt trauma to the head."

"Anything I don't know yet?"

"They're trying to find out if anyone back then reported a little girl missing, but back then... It's unlikely we'll ever find out."

"It's unlikely they'll ever find out."

"So tell me", John said, rubbing Sherlock's calf to show him he was still there.

"The dress she wore was very good quality. Expensive. Frilly. Not something you'd put on a child who runs around and gets dirty, not unless you can afford it. Expensive handmade leather shoes, something she'd grow out of in no time. And then this", he said and dug in his pocket for a medallion on a chain.

"Sherlock. You-"

"Of course I did, and you knew that when you left me alone with a corpse."

He had a point.

"It looks expensive."

"It is. And it wasn't made for a child. Someone loved her and lavished on her. And broke her arms and legs."

John had seen enough at the clinic to draw the obvious conclusion. "You think she was beaten. Abused."

Instead of an answer, Sherlock turned his back on the room and closed his eyes. John sat like that until the sun set, his hands around Sherlock's legs, and thought. And then, he untangled himself, stood, grabbed Sherlock's arm and tugged until he turned. "Sherlock."

"No."

"Sherlock. Come. Let's go to bed."

He felt the hesitation in Sherlock, felt the struggle, the need to stay right where he was and descend into depression, and the urge to go with John. John's hand slid down his arm until he reached his hand, laced their fingers together and pulled.

"Okay", Sherlock said. "Okay."

 

John snuggled close underneath the duvet, but then he dug his arm underneath Sherlock and turned him until he sprawled across John's chest. "Better than a duvet", he mumbled into Sherlock's hair. With some satisfaction, John felt Sherlock sigh and relax. Sherlock's arm stole across his waist. "I'll keep you safe", John whispered. "You hear me? I'll keep you safe. Even from the monsters in your head."  
The tension went out of Sherlock at that, his shoulders slumped and he settled entirely against John.

 

Sherlock didn't sleep well, he never really woke, but John felt him move and heard him sigh and couldn't sleep, either. Bleary-eyed, John got up at three in the morning and went downstairs, opened the terrace doors and let in the cool ocean air. He stood there for a while and breathed. Yes, well. If Sherlock wanted to solve a murder during their honeymoon, he'd solve a murder during their honeymoon. It wasn't like he was into long walks on the beach anyway. At least not more than once. And neither was John. He listened for a while, heard the swell and ebb of sea and the first eerie calls of redstarts, and debated retiring to the sofa instead of getting kicked by Sherlock, but then he smiled. He'd waited so long for those specific feet to kick his ribs.  
He crawled back underneath the covers and felt more than saw Sherlock wake. Sherlock turned over and hugged him. "You're cold", he complained.

"Had to catch a bit of air."

"Something wrong?"

"No. Nothing at all. Just can't sleep."

"Hmm."

"Because you keep kicking me."

"Oh." And then, after some processing, a slurred: "Sorry."

"Nah. I just realized I want to be kicked by you for the rest of my life."

"Flattering."

"Truth."

"Still flattering."

"Sleep, love."

"Hmmhm."


	9. Chapter 9

The doorbell roused them from deepest sleep. It rang once, then once more, more insistently this time. Something bumped against their door. Sherlock, almost entirely on John's pillow, opened one glacier-blue eye and focused on John's. "We expecting anyone?"

"No. Let's play dead."

The doorbell rang again.

"Might not work."

"What time is it?"

"Nine."

"What day is it?"

"Wednesday."

"Oh", Sherlock said, eyes wide. "And that was a bucket. It's the housekeeper."

"The what?"

"Housekeeper. I'll go and tell her to come back tomorrow."

The bell rang again, but John was already on his feet and grabbed his robe. "A housekeeper. I'm not going to pass on that. Your brother is outrageously generous, and you'll thank him properly next time you see him." Sherlock groaned, and John grinned and went downstairs.

The housekeeper turned out to be a middle-aged, short woman of eastern European origin. She gave him the friendliest smile he'd ever seen, and he became aware he obviously wasn't in London anymore. He smiled back. "Hello there."

"Hi, sorry to disturb. I'm Valya. You hired me, yes?"

"Well, actually, we just arrived, it's- we're on our honeymoon. My brother in law must have arranged this."

"Oooh, how lovely! It's my schedule, I do this house on Wednesdays. I can come back if you-"

"No! No. We were just getting up", John lied.

"Ah yes! Honeymoon, I know, I know. Where's your wife?"

"Ah, it's a..." Sherlock chose that moment to clomp down the stairs, and John almost swallowed his tongue. He'd changed into T-shirt and shorts, the ones John had bought for him, and they were a bit large and hung loose on his hip, allowing a glimpse of his hip bone. He made it look like this was exactly the look he had intended. His feet were bare, and around his wrist, he'd slung a leather thong he must have re-purposed from a pair of binoculars or something. His hair was tousled as if he'd just stepped off a surfboard. The effect was incredible, he looked devastatingly young and handsome and very unlike Sherlock.

"That's- that's-"

"William", Sherlock said and extended a hand, smiling a broad, sunny smile with a lot of very white teeth. "Will for my friends", he added and grabbed Valya's hand.

"Right", John said, his intestines a mix of shame and arousal at the sight of his adorable and much too young surfer husband.

Valya, obviously, was similarly smitten and squealed. "Your husband! How lovely! Oh, isn't that wonderful."

"Oh, it is", Sherlock said, slung an arm around John and kissed his cheek. "Coffee and granola, love?"

"Gran- yes. Sure."

"He is so not a morning person", Sherlock chimed, winked at Valya and busied himself with the coffee maker. Valya cleaned and carried off sheets and laundry and scrubbed the hardly used bathroom while Sherlock made coffee and dug up granola and fruit in the larder and the fridge. John sat at the dining table and stared. Sherlock winked.

"You-" John started, but Sherlock held a finger to his lips.

"Think she's-"

"One of Mycroft's. Quite obvious."

"Oh."

Before John could even question the sense of disguise if Valya was on Mycroft's payroll, Sherlock poured himself into John's lap, slung his arms around John and nuzzled his neck as if that's what he always did in the morning, and any thought left him. John became uncomfortably aware of the effect that charade had on him, and set his jaw.

Valya came down the stairs announcing her intention, clearly not wanting to walk in on something: "Upstairs is finished! Do you need things from the supermarket? Yes?"

"No, thank you, that's lovely, but no, thank you", John said, embarrassed by how hoarse his voice had become. Sherlock licked at John's ear, out of sight of Valya, making John jump. It took all his willpower to smile at Valya and give a cheerful wave with the one hand that wasn't occupied keeping Sherlock in check. The door fell into the lock, and John hissed: "What do you think you're doing?"

"Disguise, John", Sherlock murmured, nibbling John's ear lobe. "Imagine the headlines."

"Disguise."

"Of course. She's obviously not totally unwilling to sell us out. She can't make much as a caretaker. I am absolutely certain there already is a manhunt going on."

"You're making that up."

"Not entirely. Well, for the most part. And you like William, don't you."

"Like him. I'm not even sure William is legal yet."

"I assure you he is", Sherlock said low against his ear. John gulped. "You don't need to do that to seduce me. You know."

"Seduce you?" Sherlock widened his eyes at John, all innocence. John cupped his face with a hand and his heart missed a beat when Sherlock leaned into the touch and closed his eyes. "He's alright. I prefer my Sherlock", John smiled and kissed him, astonished by the tender response by Sherlock who kissed him back playfully. This could be him, John thought, if life had been kinder, he might have grown up to be this innocent, sunny person. And in a way, he was. They ended up tangled into each other, kissing deeply, Sherlock in John's lap, and John broke the kiss only to catch Sherlock's eye. "It can't get any better than this", John whispered and buried his face against Sherlock's neck.

"Wrong again", Sherlock said and slipped his hands into John's robe. "Would you like to have sex down here, or can you still walk?"

"I can walk", John said quickly, shoved Sherlock off his lap and dragged his surfer upstairs.

 

* * *

 

"You're thinking", John observed, his head on Sherlock's chest.

"I'm always thinking."

"You are, yes."

"A pointless observation then."

"Men usually don't think after sex."

"You don't think after sex."

"Not enough blood in my brain."

"John. You're a doctor. You shouldn't fall for that ridiculous trope."

"Too much happy in my brain then."

Sherlock started to say something, but then he leaned over and kissed John's head. "I love your brain."

"Hmmm."

John closed his eyes as Sherlock ran his fingers up and down his back. He was still thinking about something, he wasn't usually so absent-minded when he did that. But he'd tell him soon enough.

"I have been thinking", Sherlock said after a moment, and John grunted his acknowledgment. "There's only one place the girl could have come from. If she's from here, which I think she was. If not, chances are slim we'll ever find out who she was. Let us assume for a moment she is from here, judging from her clothing, she can only be a daughter or a niece of the Herst family. Herst Manor has been in their possession since the War of Roses. Even if she's not a Herst, they must have been acquainted to her. A rich girl in a dead tree on what used to be Herst property - I don't see how they could not have known her."

John tried to absorb the train of thought and find holes in it and failed at both, so he just grunted, and Sherlock went on, oblivious.

"We should go and ask them."

John's eyes flew open. "Ask them."

"Yes. Why not?"

"Ask them if they murdered a girl and put her in a tree."

"No! John. You haven't been paying attention. We'll ask them if they are a girl short. Someone must have reported her missing back then. Someone must remember a missing sister or cousin."

"Greg said there were no reports."

"He found no reports. That doesn't mean there weren't any. Doesn't mean she wasn't missed."

"Right. So, footwork then today instead of lounging on the terrace. Wonderful. Just what the doctor ordered."

"Look at the bright side, John. You wanted to explore the surroundings. Now you will!"


	10. Chapter 10

Herst Manor was an impressive slab of grey stone just uphill of the village, which, after their aborted breakfast, John eyed with longing. Sherlock, again dressed in his long dark cloak and scarf despite the summer breeze, stormed up the hill without any regard for John's empty stomach.

"Do we have a plan, Sherlock", he panted while he ran up the road behind Sherlock.

"I always have a plan. Or several", Sherlock gave back.

"Will you tell me?"

"Nope."

"Why, thanks!" Sherlock darted ahead and John did his best to keep up.

  
  
The Manor had been converted in a boutique convention centre slash hotel and resort which reminded John fondly of the manor they had married in. He shot a glance at Sherlock and blushed when Sherlock looked back at him and flashed a smile. "Ours was nicer", he whispered and hugged his shoulder briefly before storming ahead and confronting the receptionist.

  
Mr. Herst turned out to be - not what John expected. Not the grizzly patriarch, but a short, jovial, middle-aged man with a friendly smile and a firm handshake. Typical middle manager, John thought.

"Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson." Mr. Herst beamed at them both. "What can I do for you? Are you considering Herst Manor? I would be honoured, as you know, Mr. Holmes, your uncle used to visit here a lot."

"Er, no. Great-uncle actually, and that is not why we came."

"Are you sure, have you decided on a venue yet? We offer very reasonable packages starting from-"

"I am quite sure, yes. Mr. Herst-"

"-five hundred pounds for a- oh. Where did you find that?"

"You recognize the pendant?"

"Yes, of course. You will find this very pendant depicted on every female portrait back to, hm, the eighteenth century. A family heirloom. Where did this come from?"

"You know this was lost then."

"Yes. Considered lost during World War II. My mother would talk about it endlessly."

"Your mother. Can we talk to your mother about it maybe?"

"She passed away three years ago. But my father might know about it. He's the Herst, my mother... well. She was a bit peeved she didn't get to wear the famous family heirloom, you see."

"Yes, I see", Sherlock replied steadily, and John bit back an entirely inappropriate chuckle at the thought of the heirlooms he would have had to wear if he had had the bust size to make them work. Instead, he said: "We'd very much like to talk to your father. When would be a good time?"

"He's most lucid in the morning. I suppose that's a good time to talk to him."

"Oh", John said, "Is he-"

"He's in a rather excellent nursing home. Suffering from dementia, yes. But his memories of his early life are painfully clear, I assure you. Even though he might have trouble recognizing my brothers or myself."

"I'm very sorry to hear that. It's a terrible thing", John offered.

Mr. Herst shuffled his feet. "It is that, yes. Anyway", he smiled, "Are you sure you don't want to come in for a chat and tea and a look around?"

"No, we-" Sherlock started, but John interrupted: "Actually, yes! Tea sounds great, thank you so much!"

"Ah, a fellow addict", Mr. Herst smiled. "Tea it is. If you decide to go with Herst Manor as your wedding venue, we'd probably start right here, at the reception desk, and then lead your guests into the cafe for a brief toast..."  
  
  
  
"So, a Herst heirloom", John said over a stack of pancakes at the only decent café in town. Decent as in "not a tourist trap", Sherlock assured him, but John wasn't so sure. Sherlock had probably chosen it for the colourful backdrop of genuine, interesting village personalities, and he deduced non-stop about the drunk housewife and the retired fisherman and the frustrated artist and his cheating wife until John kicked his shin and Sherlock's train of thought back on track.

"I told you so, didn't I."

"You did, yes. Want a pancake?"

"What? No." Sherlock frowned. "How can you eat again? Haven't you just had tea and sandwiches at the- where do you put all that?"

"Not a question you want to ask your new spouse", John said around a mouthful. "And you're changing the topic."

"You did. By offering me disgusting pancakes."

John replied by hurling a sachet of sugar at Sherlock, who caught it with easy grace.

"Next stop: nursing home?"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you."

"What, do you have a better idea?"

Sherlock smirked. "I always have better ideas."

"You're obnoxious. Remind me again why I married you."

"Is that honey on that pancake? You do realize that's just liquid sugar."

"Regurgitated by bees, yes, Sherlock, I know, thank you."

"Empty carbohydrates with bee vomit. Incredibly good for you I'm sure. You're not eating all of them, are you?"

"Sherlock", John sighed and handed him the fork. "Here. You could have just asked, you know."

"That would have been boring", Sherlock said and started mopping up honey with a piece of pancake. John watched him dig into the rest of his pancakes with a fondness that shouldn't be targeted at someone stealing his food. He tried hard to suppress the smile that broke through the surface, thinking it would scare Sherlock off his food like a deer coming for a drink at a forest creek. And failing. He grinned at his new husband, the most stupid grin in history. And, impossibly, Sherlock smiled back. John raptly watched him eat until the rest of the stack was gone, and then reached over and took his hand in his, lacing his fingers through Sherlock's.

"Mr. Herst said his father is most lucid in the morning", John said.

"And it's already way past noon."

"Tomorrow then. You know, if we take the scenic path, the one past the knoll and along the sea, we'll be home by teatime."

"Took you a while to figure that out."

"Don't pretend that was your plan for today all along."

"Don't pretend you have a better plan."

"Depends. Care to share your plans for the evening?"

"Well, we are on our honeymoon."

"So, uh, we could argue about the crockery your mother gave us I don't like, or about your uncle groping me during the reception..."  
Sherlock's fingers closed around John's and, there could be no other word for it, he gazed into John's eyes. "I had other things in mind."

"Clearing the shack. Yes. I remember."

"Hmm. The shack. Maybe later." He kissed John's fingers, his eyes never leaving John's. John started to sweat. Must have been the tea. "Not what I had in mind at all", Sherlock said, his voice impossibly deep.

"Screw the footpath. Think you can work your magic and hail a cab out here?"

"I ordered one when we came in. It should arrive about... now."

"You are a bastard, you know that?"

"Yes", Sherlock beamed, and John spent the cab drive kissing the smug and the honey off his lips.


	11. Chapter 11

"My uncle didn't grope you during the reception, did he?"

"Hmm? Course not."

The sun tickled John's nose, and he briefly thought about getting up and taking a walk on the beach as they had planned, but that would have meant getting up and leaving Sherlock's chest.

"Good."

"And your mother didn't give us crockery. Thank God."

"I've never understood the appeal of a matching set of plates."

"Especially as we mainly eat off trays anyway."

Without preamble or regard for John's safety, Sherlock rolled off the bed and gathered his clothes and very briefly, John marveled at his own patience to be treated so and stay. "What is it?"

"Come", he said. "We missed something."

 

* * *

  
Sherlock ran up the knoll where they'd found the bees and the girl, aware of John behind him with that tendril of his attention that was permanently attached to John. Aware he yelled at him to stop, to wait, to something. He didn't even ignore it, he didn't process it in the first place. He knew he had seen something and had dismissed it. What had it been? He'd been too shocked, probably, though that was hard to confess even to himself. A body, even that of a dead little girl, shouldn't shock him, should it. It was almost like finding a mummy. Right. Wasn't it.  
The forest surrounded him and muffled the sound of the sea and the sting of the sun. Arriving at the clearing that had been trampled and examined (in that order) by the local police, he heard the sound of John's footsteps and the bees, still the bees, angrier now, somehow. He couldn't see them, they had been denied residence in the tree by a tarp covering the site in case the New Scotland Yard showed up, which it wouldn't, of course, not for a crime this old. He ripped the tarp off the tree and stared down the moldy cavern inside the massive trunk.  
There it was. He carefully dug his fingers into the pulpy mold where fungus was eating away at the dead wood, dug underneath the weird structure he had mistaken for something else entirely. The furry substance came free easily.

"What is it?"

"What do you think?"

"A dead animal."

"That's what I thought at first. But look at this."

"What- eyes? But-"

"These are glass eyes. Dark brown glass eyes. Two of them. And an even darker button, here. Do you see?"

"A face."

"She had her teddy bear with her. Why would someone hide her inside a tree with her teddy bear?"

"Maybe she had it with her when she died."

"You'd think she'd lose it when she was carried here. No..."

"Someone wanted to comfort her in death."

"How would a teddy bear comfort a dead child?"

He could feel John's glare on him, and Sherlock realized he'd missed a crucial point. "Oh. Sentiment."

"Sherlock. Sometimes I wonder... I mean, didn't you have a teddy bear when you were little?"

"That would have been a waste of resources."

The silence that fell at that was so profound Sherlock looked up from the decomposed teddy bear and at John, who watched him with an inscrutable expression on his face. It wasn't an expression Sherlock could endure for very long. "John?" He could have sworn there was a wet sheen to John's eyes when he trudged over and hugged him, hard.

"Doesn't matter", Sherlock choked. "I've got you now, don't I?"

"That makes up for a lot", John said, his voice thick. "I hope."

"Everything."

And he couldn't decide if clutching a dead girl's teddy bear while being hugged by John made matters better or worse and why exactly he found it suddenly so difficult to breathe.

* * *

 

  
"What do we know", prompted John. They sat on the terrace, empty dinner plates between them, half-full tumblers in hand.

"We know she's a Herst or closely affiliated. She was clubbed to death. She was physically abused. Her living relative, if she indeed is a Herst, doesn't know about her. Whoever deposited her body cared for her and left her her necklace as well as a teddy bear."

"A strange way to get rid of a body."

"A strange place, too."

"Yeah. A hollow tree. Of all the places."

"The place a murderer chooses to rid himself of a corpse always has significance. Often, of course, it's simply a convenient place he thinks is secure, but even by looking at the places he doesn't choose you can discern important facts about him. Where he lives. What he's comfortable with and what he's not. Often, it's a place that allows easy to access. Where chances of discovery are slim. Sometimes, he chooses a place that means something to him, either because it's a place he and the victim frequented or because it's a place of power. A hollow tree could be both. An oak tree that size has significance." Sherlock rubbed his eyes. "I think we can rule out spontaneous placement. We can also rule out that he simply wanted to get rid of her. The sea isn't far, a girl that size isn't heavy. He could have made her vanish forever. A place like that? I'm surprised she stayed hidden that long."

"Why do you think - oh. The toy and the necklace."

"Yes. He wasn't after her expensive necklace. And he cared. Wanted her protected even in death."

"Protected. After he killed her."

"You'd be surprised how many people want to bring their victim back to life after they understand what they have done."  
Sherlock took a swig from his tumbler and glanced at John whose gaze went inward. Of course. John, of all people, knew about killing. The awful finality of it. Of dousing a light you could never rekindle. For a while, Sherlock listened to the sound of the sea and the wind in the sedge grass, sipped his drink and thought about nothing, careful not to intrude on John's thought process.

"I don't buy it", John said finally, leaning forward. The storm lantern cast flickering shadows across his face, giving the familiar features an ominous quality.

"Dispose of her, but don't take back the family heirloom. Beat her to death, but tuck her in with a teddy bear. It doesn't fit, Sherlock. You're missing something."

"Missing what?"

"I don't know. It just feels off."

"It feels off. Very specific, that. I'm not aware of any case we cracked because it felt right. Or off. Or whatever."

"Just because you call it intuition, doesn't mean it's not feeling."

"Ah. You're staging the eternal conflict between reason and emotion. You argue for emotion, I argue for reason, clearcut and simple. Now all we need is a Greek chorus and a god out of a machine. Flying out of that dormer over there. Too easy, John. We left anything Platonic far behind, you and I, even dualism."

John stared at him and then burst out laughing. "I think you're drunk."

"I'm not."

"Well on your way."

"I'm not!"

"Oh but you are."

"I'm, what's that called? Tipsy. How's that possible? I only had two of these."

"Three and a half."

"No."

"Three and a half. I counted. Here's the bottle."

"Sublimation."

"Bullshit. And if anything, evaporation. You are drunk", said John, took his hand and pulled him out of his chair, "Come. Let's go to bed."

"You tricked me. You tricked me somehow."

"You refilled, you prick."

"Did I? I did."

"I'm telling you."

"Good stuff, this. What was it?"

"Something expensive Mycroft bought I guess."

"Uh. Of course. Leave it to my brother to... Hey John?"

"Sherlock?"

"I love you. So much."

"I love you too. That's why you get the bathroom first."

Up in their bed, the two to three-and-a-half tumblers of whisky doing their thing to his brain, Sherlock decided life was good. In general. Right now. It was good. John came to bed smelling of toothpaste and soap, and he burrowed into him and cuddled close and wrapped his arms around him and John oofed and complained a bit but then settled and nuzzled him and Sherlock's last thought before he fell asleep was that he had an inkling why someone would give someone a teddy bear, even after death.

* * *

  
The visit at the nursing home was a complete disaster. John and Sherlock showed up in the morning. Mr. Herst had called ahead, and they had prepped his father, wheeled him out into the common room of the admittedly tasteful and surely expensive facility. The old man sat up straight and had his plaid adjusted by a stately woman around his own age who tsked and smiled when he tried to shoo her off. He seemed lucid and chatty and shook their hands, claiming he knew exactly who they were, and that he'd known Sherlock as a wee little boy and clearly recalled the day had Sherlock cried on the beach because he had to pee and didn't have a nappy on. Sherlock blushed and forced a smile and pretended he recalled, and he tried his best to steer the conversation to work.

"Did you have a sister?" he started innocently enough, and Mr. Herst senior declined so vigorously that even John narrowed his eyes. Sherlock produced the pendant, and the old man looked as though he'd been struck with an axe to the forehead, stared at the necklace crosseyed, mute, the only indication he was still alive was the incessant shaking of his hands that got more violent by the second until he took a deep breath, made a lunge for the necklace and shouted bloody murder. Accused them of murder and theft and shrieked at the top of his lungs, leaving John and Sherlock and Mr. Herst junior dumbfounded and shocked and a necklace short.

"I'm sorry", Herst junior said, visibly shaken, after his father had been wheeled away and, judging from the noises, sedated. "I don't know where that came from."

"Clearly, your father does know something about this necklace", Sherlock concluded.

"We're very sorry we upset him so", John added sheepishly.

The elderly woman returned and handed the pendant over to Sherlock with an apologetic smile.

"Can you tell me where you found this?" Herst asked. "I'm sure there's more to it than..."

"We found it on the body of a girl, dead fifty to sixty years. In a tree in a copse near the sea."

"Oh. That used to be our land, yes."

"We assume she must have been a member of your family to wear this."

"There hasn't been a single girl in the family since World War I. Just boys, much to my mother's and grandmother's chagrin."

"Are you sure about that?"

"I don't have aunts, that much I know."

"That doesn't mean there wasn't one."

"There should be birth certificates though."

"There aren't. Scotland Yard investigated."

"The Scotland Yard is invested in this?" Herst junior looked thrilled, not shocked, and certainly not anxious. "Oh, that's fantastic. My wife loves murder stories. And a lost aunt! I mean, of course, this is horrible, but... I'm sorry. That was entirely inappropriate."

Sherlock smiled at his excitement, sensing a kindred soul. "No, not inappropriate at all. I appreciate a good murder mystery much like everyone else."


	12. Chapter 12

"So, a sister", John said, trying to catch up with Sherlock on their way back to their house.

"Obviously, John, why else would he react that harshly. He couldn't have heard we found her body or how we found it."

"That doesn't tell us who murdered her."

"No, but it does tell us he knew she was murdered. And it was obviously hushed up so thoroughly even her birth certificate vanished. Why would anyone wipe a family history clear of any mention of a child? They didn't cover up her death. They exterminated her."

"Well..."

"Don't bother, John, it's abundantly clear. Something so horrible happened, something so interwoven with the family that she had to be purged from history."

"Child abuse and murder."

"That's what I think, yes."

Sherlock opened the door for them and shed his coat and his shoes, and John walked over to the terrace doors to let the cool ocean air in. "I'll make tea", John announced. "Want anything special?"

"Nah."

At that, John peeked around the corner where he had filled the kettle. "You okay?"

For several heartbeats, Sherlock considered that. Was he? He blinked. Took it all in, the little house and the breeze and the gulls and he thought he could still smell the sun on John's skin, even though he wasn't even close. Was he? "Yes", he said. "Yes. I'm surprisingly okay."

"Good", John hollered from the kitchen, "Otherwise, I'd have to come and hug you."

"Oh, in that case", Sherlock said and pounced on John, hugging him from behind and nuzzling his neck, "In that case I'm not okay."

"Too late", John smiled and turned around in Sherlock's arms to kiss him. Without preamble, he pulled Sherlock's shirt out of his trousers and shoved his hands underneath.

"Weren't you going to make tea", Sherlock breathed.

"Water's going to boil on its own."

"So we have until the kettle's boiling." That didn't matter, time seemed to slow anyway whenever he was close to John, and he took his time kissing and licking summer off John's skin, only marginally aware of John opening his fly.

"We're having an insane amount of sex", Sherlock observed.

"Is that a complaint", John smiled against his lips.

"Never." Sherlock closed his eyes, lost to the sensation of John's tongue halfway down his throat and John's hand around his cock. "Whatever you do, don't stop", he managed and briefly thought that John would definitely finish him before the kettle boiled when another noise shrilled through this absolutely perfect moment. The doorbell.

"Christ", John said and stopped, and Sherlock's world shattered.

"Don't stop. John!"

"We left the terrace door open", John sighed. "I'm going to answer the door."

Sherlock groaned and hurried to make himself presentable.

 

* * *

  
"No. Not you", Sherlock said. John kicked him.

"Mycroft. Please. Come in."

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I", Mycroft said and already had a foot inside the door before Sherlock could close it on him. "I thought I'd drop by and see how you are."

"We're fine, as you can see, and now that you've seen it, please leave", Sherlock said.

"Would you like some tea? We were just about to sit down and have a cuppa", John lied amiably.

"Thank you, John, very kind. Make that two."

With that, Lestrade came in with a sheepish look on his face. "So sorry to do this to you during your honeymoon", he said.  
The kettle boiled and Sherlock, once again, silently bemoaned what could have happened around now.

"You're always welcome", John beamed from the kitchen.

"Why exactly are you here?"

"Sherlock, brother dear, I'm here to see if you're still doing fine. Someone has to keep an eye on you. Don't you agree, John?"  
John didn't answer, he busied himself with the kettle and the mugs, his face stonily cheery. Somewhere in the back, Lestrade admired the view.

"I don't plan on taking my life anytime soon", Sherlock replied. "With that assurance, I'm sure you'll find your presence here no longer necessary."

"Sherlock, be a good host", John said. "Do sit down. Please."

An uneasy truce had them pouring tea and eating biscuits. The silence stretched painfully.

"Again", John started, "Thank you for this. Mycroft. It's wonderful. I still can't believe you did this."

"It's nothing", Mycroft said, preening. "A small compensation for all you did for my brother. For the family. I am aware he's not the most tractable Holmes brother."

"But the more handsome one", Sherlock muttered. Greg sputtered and almost lost his tea.

"He's the one I want to spend the rest of my life with, Mycroft", John said lightly. "And I'll do everything I can to ensure it'll be a long and happy life."

Honesty always disarmed his brother, Sherlock knew. As it had him, again and again.

"Good", Mycroft smiled. Lestrade munched on his third biscuit.

"Why are you here?"

"Ah, it's really simple actually", Lestrade said, "It's the case. We'd like you to investigate."

Sherlock stared at Lestrade as if he'd grown a second head. "Case?"

"Yes, you know, Sherlock, the one with the dead girl?"

"You want me to investigate that."

"Yes. But with you being on your honeymoon and all-"

"We might fit that in", Sherlock said quickly and tried to ignore John snorting.

"I'm glad to hear that", Lestrade said with a sidelong glance at John. Who nodded and said: "We might. It means some shuffling around of priorities, but..."

"We might be able to. Yes."

"They already finish each other's sentences", Mycroft said.

"A proper married couple", Lestrade observed. "Great tea as well."

"I take it you have additional information relevant to this investigation?"

Lestrade grinned at Sherlock and produced a folder from his coat. "We know who she is. You'll never guess."

"She's a Herst", Sherlock said simply.

"Ah, yes, she is. How did you know?"

"Never mind that." Sherlock quickly recited what they had found out, and Lestrade's smile turned down a notch.

"Good", he said finally, "Fine. You all but cracked it already. But who did it?"

"That remains the actual conundrum. Could have been anyone. Anyone would have had the strength to cause such injuries in a girl that small. If we find who put her in the tree, though, we might find out who killed her."

"You think it's the same person."

"Possibly."

"You're not sure."

"No... We found something", Sherlock said and, without another word, vanished into the bathroom to return with the scabby teddy bear that had dried overnight.

"What on earth is that", Mycroft snorted.

"A dead animal? No. A teddy bear", Lestrade said.

"Astutely observed", Sherlock said with a glance at John, who rolled his eyes.

"And this was-"

"Underneath the body. The local police must have missed it."

"Undoubtedly they did", Mycroft said. "This wouldn't be something you acquired before the police could find it. Would it."

"No, this wouldn't be something I acquired before the police could find it."

"John. Tell me he didn't steal this."

"No, Mycroft", John said and rubbed at an invisible spot on the sofa. "He didn't steal this."

"It's significant", Sherlock continued. "Don't you agree?"

"Someone wanted her protected", Lestrade said.

"Indeed. Someone made sure she had her teddy bear with her, even in death."

"Hardly probable", interjected Mycroft.

"Almost certain."

"A teddy bear? Brother dear. Surely not."

"An object of affection, a topic you would hardly be familiar with."

"An object of affection for whom, Sherlock?"

"Surely you don't-"

"Context, brother. I never thought I'd have to accuse you of being blinkered. Consider the era. Consider the gender. Consider-"

"A boy. You mean it's a boy's gift."

"Obviously. Never would a young lady be seen in public with a mangy teddy bear. A precious doll, yes. A teddy bear? I think not."

Sherlock stared at Mycroft for several seconds, mute, unwavering, then, in an explosion of motion and intention, snatched the teddy bear off the table and his coat off the hook and made for the door. "John, keep up! Back to the nursing home."

 

  
The door fell into the lock, and John mused that the brief silence that followed could have been called blessed. He picked up his mug and took a long sip.

"So", he said to Lestrade and Mycroft, who still stared at the door, "Any vacation plans of your own this summer?"

Lestrade was the first to react. "Aren't you going to-"

"Nah. He does that."

"Yes, he does", agreed Mycroft.

"More biscuits, Greg?"

"No, thanks, I really shouldn't..."

"Your wife still seeing the PE teacher? Sorry. That was..."

"Yeah", sighed Lestrade. "Sherlock does rub off on you, doesn't he."

"I'm afraid he might", Mycroft agreed.

"But yes. She is. That's a topic for something stronger than tea though."

"Are you staying the night? We should still have something left of that amazing whisky Mycroft gave us", John said and opened the pantry.

"Oh. So he found my stash."

"Of course he did", John sighed and poured a drink for each of them.

 

* * *

  
"This is excellent stuff", Lestrade said when they were deep into the second bottle and Sherlock still hadn't come home.

"It was expensive enough", Mycroft growled.

"I wonder where Sherlock is. It's dark."

"And it's raining."

"Never mind. My brother undoubtedly found a more fascinating topic along the way."

"He does that."

John sobered up by the minute. It was dark, it did rain, and where was Sherlock?

"There was this one time when he was but a little boy when he-"

"Sorry, Mycroft, Greg, where did you say you're staying?"

"Have we overstayed our welcome, John?"

"Not at all. It's just that, you know, I should probably make your beds then."

"No need, John", Greg said and landed a heavy hand on his shoulder and hoisted himself to his feet, "My assistant booked rooms somewhere here."

"Yours did too? Mine did as well."

"Well, I'm sure mine are-"

"I can assure you Anthea would never book-"

"Do you need a cab while you figure it out?" John asked, suddenly impatient with worry.

"No, mine's walking distance", boasted Greg.

"I have a car waiting."

"Well", Lestrade said and put an arm around Mycroft, who flinched, but only a little, "My friend? You win."  



	13. Chapter 13

Even though he knew exactly where to look, finding Sherlock wasn't easy. Not at all. The flashlight provided little illumination, and the rain that blew in almost horizontally didn't help either. John scrunched up his face against the rain and cursed under his breath. At the tree, he called Sherlock's name and shone his light into all the places he thought someone might go to evade the rain, but the raindrops reflected the light and actually made it harder to see anything at all.  
  
In the end, he almost fell over him in a small copse of fir trees that provided a bit of shelter. He'd sat on the ground, his back against a tree, his coat open and his collar down. For a moment, anxiety hit John so hard that he was certain he wasn't even the slightest bit drunk anymore.

"Sherlock. What - come. Get up." He took him by the arm and pulled him to his feet and realized that he was wet through and through, and that he was shivering.  
They didn't talk while they walked home, didn't even touch. John was furious, and he knew he had to walk it off until they talked. He knew that. It was hard though, and Sherlock's shuttered face told him it'd get even harder once they talked. Until they arrived at their place, John had silently shouted his way through more arguments they'd had in months and lost them all already, and if anything, he was even more cross with Sherlock. For making him walk through that rain and wind and get wet to the bones. For getting out after a nice evening with friends. Well. Friends... with a brother in law and a friend.  
  
But maybe that was it. Guilt. Sherlock's expression, quickly hidden, told him he had every reason to feel guilty. Only about what, John wasn't too clear.  
  
Back home, Sherlock dripped like a wet dog, and just like a wet dog, he made no conscious effort to avoid getting furniture wet, which angered John even more.

"Take that off", he told him, more gruffly than he'd intended. "Put it on a hanger in the bathroom."

"What if I don't. Are you going to call Mycroft?"

John gaped at him. "Mycroft? Why would I call Mycroft?"

"I don't know. Why would you?"

"You think I called Mycroft?"

"Didn't you?"

"No!"

"Awfully convenient for him to show up here."

"He wanted to check on you, Sherlock, of course he shows up! And you, you just run away, out into the rain, and hide in the forest. So very mature."

"It wasn't raining when I-"

"You ran and left me alone with your brother!"

"You seemed to cope just fine."

"You ran away. You always run away."

"This is for a case, John! I wanted you to come with!"

"To the nursing home. After visiting hours. Of course!"

"I didn't know that then! And when I came back-"

"Don't think you can fool me, Sherlock, not even for a minute. For the case. Right. You know what?" John was aware he was doing the fingerpointing and the yelling, but he didn't care. "You know what? You're an immature, jealous prick."

It was Sherlock's turn to gape now.

"That's right, and you know it. That's why you wanted me to come with. So I'm not with them. There. You know I'm right. You know it."

Sherlock's mouth a thin line, he glared at John, still dripping rain. "You seemed to get along splendidly without me", he said.

"Oh, we did. Splendidly. Oh, of course. Where did you watch us from, the porch? The window? Let me guess. You spent the entire evening sitting outside, watching us. You did. Oh dear Lord, you did." John slowly shook his head.

"I did, yes", Sherlock said simply.

"You didn't come in because..."

"You were just fine without me."

John stood stock still, his anger evaporated. "No. You thought I was better without you. Had more fun without you."  
Sherlock didn't answer, which was answer enough.

"Sherlock. You're my husband. You're my everything. How can you believe, even for a moment, that I'd prefer your brother? Or Greg? I missed you. I was worried."

"Why didn't you come after me?"

"Why do I always have to run after you! Why do you even make me? Always, always, always, like a dog on a fucking leash! Why I didn't come after you? Because we had guests! You can't just run off when we have guests!"

"But the case-"

"The case is sixty years old!"

"We picked up momentum now, we can't just let it slide!"

"We're not. But that one evening, Sherlock, we could have had an absolutely normal evening with friends and family."

Sherlock's gaze went from John to the ceiling and stayed there. "If that's what you want, you should have married someone else."

For a long moment, John looked at his bedraggled husband and was at a loss, couldn't think of anything to say. He had enjoyed that evening. Had wanted Sherlock to enjoy it too. But then, he knew who Sherlock was, didn't he.

"You should get out of those clothes", he said. "Have a hot shower."

"You're changing the topic."

"Yes. I am."

"I'm not finished with this topic yet."

"I am though."

"I think it was the right decision to go to the nursing home."

"I know you think that. I don't."

"But I think that-"

"I think you should have stayed and that you should not have ruined my evening by getting wet and cold in the rain. So there."

"You fail to provide a compelling argument."

"So do you."

Suddenly, Sherlock smiled. "You love me."

"Of course I do, you stupid prick", John said and wrapped his arms around him, wet coat and all, and hugged him tight. "Go and shower and change. You're cold."  


  
Sherlock vanished upstairs, and he heard the shower going a minute later. Good, he thought. At least he'd get warm. With a resigned sigh, John hung his own jacket and went upstairs in search for dry clothes.  
  
Sherlock, he realized later, was using up all the warm water. Not that John was planning on taking a shower himself, but it did upset him, and he knocked on the bathroom door. "Sherlock. You've been in there long enough."

No reaction.

"Sherlock. I mean it. You're using up all the hot water."

Nothing.

And that's when John's intestines went liquid with fear. He took a deep breath and opened the door, half dreading what he'd see, hoping he wasn't too late. What he saw, though, was Sherlock, still fully dressed, sitting on the floor next to the bathtub, hugging his knees, averting his eyes. No blood. No syringe. The relief was so profound John almost fainted.  
  
Instead, he went over to the shower and turned it off and then sat down next to Sherlock, noticing the puddle of icy water around Sherlock only when the water had already soaked his trousers. He sat like that for a while and then put an arm around Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock all but melted against him, he let go of his knees and slung his arms around John, who hugged him back forcefully. Only then did he notice Sherlock was crying silently. He pressed a kiss into his wet hair and thought fast and hard.

"You're all wet", he said. "And cold."

There was no reply, and he hadn't expected any. Sherlock didn't talk when he was like that.

"Let's make a deal. You get out of those wet clothes, and I put you to bed."

Nothing, Sherlock just held on to him, unresponsive.

"No? Okay."

John brushed wet hair back from Sherlock's brow and kissed him there.

"How about I make you something warm to drink? Milk with honey?"

"I'm not a child, John."

"No, you're my husband and I love you and milk with honey is good for you. And, well. I usually put brandy in it."

He wrapped an arm around Sherlock's head and drew him very close, inviting him to snuggle up against his throat.

"I hate fighting with you", Sherlock whispered.

"I know.

"Why do we?"

"Because of differences in opinion."

"A trivial explanation."

John smiled against Sherlock's brow. "As long as we don't enjoy fighting, we should be fine."

They sat like that for a little longer, each lost in his own thoughts. Then John ruffled Sherlock's hair once more for good measure and said: "I'll make you a nice cup of milk with honey, and you'll get out of those clothes. That's just the thing after you've been out in the rain. Spying on your husband."

Sherlock snorted, but he actually let up and stiffly climbed to his feet.  


* * *

  
"You only do things like that because you want me to spoil you."

"John! No. No!"

"Not even a little?"

"I'm not capable of such deception."

At that, John laughed.

"Well. Yes. I might be capable, but I-"

"Say, are you okay? You still feel cold."

"I'm okay."

"No, you really feel cold." John got out of bed and found a quilt and draped it over Sherlock's half of the duvet, almost smothering him. Sherlock had to admit it felt a bit stifling, but it was warmer. Warmer still when John snuggled close and took his hands in his and breathed on them, then kissed his fingers, one by one.

"You looked happy."

"It was fun. A bit."

"I wish I could make you that happy."

Sherlock felt John wince and sigh.

"For all your prized intellect, you're surprisingly stupid", John said and turned his back on him, burrowed into the curve of Sherlock's body and ended the conversation, only that Sherlock wouldn't have that. Still, the phone went off before Sherlock could ask what that meant, and John groaned and accepted the call. Curled around John, he could hear part of the conversation. Mycroft, of course.

"No, no, he's home. Yes. No, it's all fine. You really don't have to. We're fine. Are you in a pub? Oh. Okay. Tell Greg hi from me. No, I don't think he wants to talk to you. He's asleep. Yes, really. He does sleep, you know. Both of us do. Good. Fine. Yes. See you in the morning then? Not too early. Yes. Good. Goodnight." He slammed the phone on the night stand with an exasperated sigh.

"I'm sorry", Sherlock said.

"Don't. Please, love. Don't."

The phone went off again, and John faithfully took the call. "What."

He listened for a while, and Sherlock felt his body grow tense. "That's really not necessary, I assure you- no. No, he's- Okay. Fine. Yeah. Well then." He held the phone out to Sherlock. "Your brother doesn't believe you're alive."

"Tell him I am."

"I did. Doesn't believe me."

"What? Ridiculous." Sherlock took the phone and said: "I am alive, stop bothering us, thank you - are you drunk? Mycroft?" The line went dead, and that was that. Sherlock placed the phone back on the nightstand, reaching past John, who sighed. "Family."

"Sorry."

But John drew Sherlock's arm around himself and kissed his hand, snuggled close and relaxed. "That's how we love you", he said, and left Sherlock to ponder that while John's heart, beating steadily under Sherlock's hand, slowed and his breathing calmed and finally, little twitches told him John had fallen asleep.  



	14. Chapter 14

The doorbell roused Sherlock from a vivid dream about teddy bears and oak trees, and he opened one eye to bright sunlight and a less bright Dr. Watson, who hadn't opened his eyes in the first place when he said: "Housekeeper?"

"Is it Wednesday already?"

"No."

"Then no."

John cursed when the bell rang again, and he scrunched up his face in a way that always made Sherlock smile. The bell sounded angry, there was no other word for it, even though surely, the chime was chosen to sound light and cheerful. It rang again, even angrier this time.

"Must be Mycroft", Sherlock concluded. John burrowed underneath the duvet and grunted. Outside, Mycroft resorted to knocking on the door, which was somehow worse. Insistence, unfiltered by benign eletronics.

"Christ", John cursed from somewhere underneath Sherlock's armpit.

"No. Just my brother."

"Think he'll go away if we play dead?"

"On the contrary. He'll break down the door and dissect our corpses."

Mycroft chose that moment to yell: "I'll have you know: I have a set of keys. Make yourself presentable, we are coming in."

"I told him not to drop by so early", John complained.

"Why did you tell him to drop by at all? John!"

"Because he's family, that's why", John said, resigned, and reluctantly trudged into the bathroom.

"Family is an arbitrary concept!" Sherlock shouted after him and only just heard John's muffled "It's not!" before the shower came on.  


  
"Make yourself at home, why don't you", John said when he walked down the stairs and found Lestrade operating the coffee maker while Mycroft sat at the table, very stiff and upright and proper in a way that suggested a splitting headache that would explode as soon as he moved.

"I'm so sorry, John, he insisted", Lestrade said sheepishly from the kitchen. "I told him-"

"No, that's fine", lied John. "You need help?"

"I brought fresh rolls and pastries", Lestrade said by way of an apology.

"Where's my brother", Mycroft demanded, and John ignored him. "Oh, thank you, you shouldn't have", he told Lestrade because that's what you did when someone invaded your home in the morning but at least had the good sense to bring breakfast.

"So sorry to intrude", Lestrade repeated. "Your honeymoon and all." He looked genuinely abashed.

"We don't shag every waking moment, Greg", John lied again.

"They do", Mycroft said.

John and Lestrade exchanged an exasperated look. "I'm sorry", said John, though he didn't know what for.

"What for", Sherlock asked from the stairway, and John turned around and groaned. William had made a reappearance, no thong this time, but shorts and T-shirt and bare feet and tousled hair. He sidled over to John and kissed him, a kiss that lasted a bit too long and was a bit too intense and entirely for shock effects.

"Tea, love?" he smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes, and John shot him a withering glance and then glowered at Mycroft and Lestrade before remembering that this was actually his house now, his husband, and they were guests. "So", he said, "Here we are, all of us. Having breakfast. Lovely."

"It'd be lovelier if my brother wouldn't show his usual lack of decorum."

Sherlock took a deep breath and started to say something, but John clapped a hand over Sherlock's mouth and stifled whatever it was and said instead: "Mycroft. Please. You're welcome here, always. But you are a guest here. If this is how your brother wants to behave in the privacy of his own home, you'd do well to accept that."

He waited for a moment before he let go of Sherlock, who opened his mouth as if to speak but then, with a look at John, turned and busied himself in the kitchen, overseeing Lestrade's efforts at cooking breakfast. John found himself in a staring contest with Mycroft, who did his best to glower despite his obvious hangover.

"Aspirin?" John smiled.

"Yes please", Mycroft replied.

  
"So", John said cheerfully, when all four had their plates full of scrambled eggs and tomatoes and bacon and toast, "Nursing home today. Confront Mr. Herst senior with a mangy old teddy bear. That the plan?"

"That is the plan", Mycroft said. Lestrade looked at Sherlock, who shoved eggs from one end of the plate to the other.

"Sherlock?"

"It seems my brother is perfectly capable of-"

"Sherlock, don't."

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked Mycroft, ignoring John's attempts to rein him in. "You're not here to keep an eye on me. You have bugs in every corner of this house."

"Of which you disabled more than half."

"Of course I did. Because you're not welcome to every aspect of our lives."

"It's a matter of security, Sherlock."

"It's obsessive."

"Caring."

"Creepy."

The brothers stared at each other while Lestrade and John exchanged a smirk.

"I get it now", Sherlock said. "You can't stand that one of us is finally happy, and that the one is me."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Who would have thought the younger Holmes would find happiness. The less adapted one. Unfit for society. That he'd find someone who loves him."

"I knew that before you did."

"Which I doubt very much, and even if that were so, it doesn't mean you don't begrudge me my unexpected happy ending."

"Oh, please."

"Stop it, you two", John interrupted. "Keep the bickering for London."

"Of course you do", Sherlock carried on, "You're jealous."

"I'm not."

"Oh but you are."

"You're my family, you and John. How could I be-"

At that, John perked up. But that was just it, wasn't it. They were family now. He had a brother in law. He sat at a table with his husband and his brother in law and a friend, and that's all it was about. He felt a bit of vertigo at the thought, the thought that he'd brought normality to their family. He, of all people. Provided an anchor for both brothers. That now home, for both of them, in a way, was where he was. He barked a laugh and then burst out laughing and laughed until his sides ached. The Holmes brothers stared. Lestrade clearly wished he was somewhere else.

"God", he wheezed, "I can't wait for Christmas."

 

* * *

 

It was a strange group that entered the nursing home. Lestrade had arranged another visit with Herst junior, who was all too willing to pursue what he called The Case, much to Sherlock's chagrin - he hated amateurs, and Herst quickly developed into an avid amateur who told him everything about his family's history on the cab ride to the retirement home, punctuated by Sherlock's noncommittal grunts. Sherlock had donned his armour of scarf and coat despite the renewed summer heat and occupied the cab with John and Herst while Lestrade rode in the local force's car. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock glance back at the police car and squirm, and he knew how much he hated that his had become a proper investigation.  
Without regard for propriety, Sherlock left the cab as soon as it slowed, leaving John to pay, as usual, and he stormed ahead of them all, coat flapping on the sea breeze, the teddy bear's remains held out in front of him like a shield. John darted after him, remembering how he'd wanted to start running anyway, and wished he had already.

"Sherlock, wait. We need a plan. You can't just barge in-"

"A murder happened here, John."

"Yes. A long time ago. Listen, you can't run in and confront him. You'll upset him and then you won't get anything out of him."

"What do you suggest?" Sherlock clutched the teddy bear to his chest, the mangy creature a stark contrast to the determination on his face.

"A bit of tact."

"You mean I'm generally tactless."

"Well, yes, you know that you are."

"John", Sherlock said and turned to enter the building.

Well, John thought, at least their exchange had given the rest of the gang time to catch up.  


  
"Father", Herst junior said, "These gentlemen here have come to talk to you about... about a bear."

"A bear", Herst senior repeated stoically.

"I'm with the Scotland Yard", Lestrade explained and showed his badge. "We need your help."

"Oh, that's nice", the old man said, "Do you care for tea?"

"Yes", said John. "No", said Sherlock.

"Oh, that's you again, the young Holmes! Your uncle didn't care much for tea either."

"Great-uncle."

"Yes, yes. Coffee then? Amanda, please, where's Amanda?"

The lady who had wheeled him off the first time they'd been on site walked towards them from the other side of the sitting room and placed a hand on the old man's shoulder. "There you are", he said and patted her hand. "These gentlemen here-"

"I know why they're here", she said.

"I can see that", Sherlock replied.

"Tea?" John tried.

  
Lestrade leaned forward to hear what the old man Herst had to say, and John leaned back to blow on his tea, which was great and scalding hot. Amanda, whom he still couldn't place, who might have been another patient or a friend or a relative or a lover even, smiled a tight little smile and sat down next to Herst senior's wheelchair. Sherlock's attention was all on her, and he clutched the teddy bear tightly.

"You found him", Herst said.

"Yes. Is it yours?"

"Why of course he is. Can I hold him?"

Sherlock turned it over, and John's heart broke a little when the old man's eyes lit up in joy and recognition. "Sam", that's his name. "Sam. I haven't seen him in a long while."

"When was the last time you saw him then?" asked Lestrade.

"I must have been... twelve. Thirteen maybe. No older. Boarding schools... you know what's it like."

"Yes", Sherlock said. "Do you remember the day you lost it?"

"I never lost him."

With a smile, Sherlock looked at Amanda, who sat very straight and stirred her tea. "But you remember the day you saw it last, don't you."

"I do, yes. But he tells the truth. He didn't lose Sam."

"No, he didn't. It was a gift to someone, wasn't it. And the necklace, that was your gift to her. No, you don't have to say it. Of course it was. It wasn't yours to give, but you thought it adequate. My question is, who are you, and how would you have access to valuable jewelery?"

She smiled and sipped her tea.

"Amanda's mother used to work for my grandmother", Herst junior chimed in. "She was like an aunt to us."

"Of course", Sherlock said. "You grew up together, you, Herst senior, the girl in the tree. Were you friends?"

"Friends", she spat, couldn't help herself, obviously.

"No? Oh, I see. A maid's daughter and a -"

"Sisters rather", she interrupted. "She was lovely. Generous. Honest. Warm. She was- she was my best friend. We lived on Herst Manor, my mother as maid, my father was a mechanic."

"And then you killed her", Sherlock said, holding her gaze. To her credit, she didn't even flinch.

"I've come back to that conclusion many, many times over the years. We must have killed her. We meant well, but it must have been us. We never told. Never." Her hand kneaded the old man's shoulders, and his eyes grew soft and moist. "His sister. Vicky."

At the mention of the name, Herst perked up. "We don't talk about Vicky."

"We can now, Jim", Amanda said. "It's alright."

"You put her in the tree. The two of you."

"The tree was our sanctuary", Amanda continued, and the old man nodded. "That's where we went when her father had his moments. You'd called it PTSD today, I think, two wars, and he in both of them. He came home broken and abusive. I understand that now. I didn't then. Those were different times."

"Different times", James Herst echoed.

"She always had a broken bone. A black eye. Marks on her skin. She had such white skin. Translucent. The marks on her were terrible. Then one day, she came to us and was worse than usual, she said she couldn't see out of her one eye and she had fallen and her father was irate."

"She was scared of him, we all were", Herst said. "My little sister. Vicky was her name."

"We were all scared of him."

"Until I went away for school", Herst added.

"We used to play house underneath the oak tree. What better place to hide her?"

Sherlock bit his lip. "Was she conscious when you hid her?"

"I don't think so. We meant to hide her until she was better. We - I don't know what we were thinking. We should have called a doctor. We wanted to call her mother, but she was away in town, and when we came back, she was cold and we knew she was dead."

"You couldn't have saved her", John said. "The trauma to her head was severe. She probably wouldn't have survived even in intensive care."

"Still. We left her alone."

"She died in a place of safety", John offered. For a long time, nobody spoke.

"Perfect", Sherlock said finally. "A murder without murderer."

That broke the spell, and Herst junior moved, lunged across the table to tackle his father and drew him into a hug that almost dislodged him from the wheelchair. The old man gave a surprised huff and hugged back with a smile, eyes closed against the tears. "I'm so sorry, Dad", he said and clapped his shoulders before returning to his seat. "I had an aunt", he said, shaking his head, "And her name was Vicky."  



	15. Chapter 15

"Why was there no mention of the child?" John asked, as much to occupy Sherlock's mind as to actually know when they drove back to the cottage. "Not anywhere. Not even a birth certificate."

"John. Please. Obviously, the father covered it up. Bribed someone. You know how these things work."

"But her mother-"

"She must have been so terrified she went along with it."

"That's horrible", John said, but it fell in line with so many things he'd seen at the clinic that he didn't question it.

"No reckoning, that's what I find most horrible", Sherlock said lightly. "No conclusion. There's nothing neat about this case. A dead child, a murderer who's long dead."

"Herst junior told me his grandfather died a lonely man. His wife must have died shortly after their daughter."

"Loneliness is never a punishment for anyone's deeds."

"Well, maybe this time, we could make an exception?"

"No."

"Okay", John said and smiled at Sherlock, who stared out of the window. Sherlock didn't allow himself to be distracted. After a long time, he said: "Do you think people have a right to have a happy childhood?"

"No. Yes. I don't know. No child should be abused, that I know. But, as to happy... it is what it is. Vicky's father, who knows what he saw. Who knows what James Herst went through."

"That's no excuse."

"No. Never. It's an explanation."

"Hm", said Sherlock, unconvinced. "John.", he said finally.

He didn't have to say anything else. John took his hand in his and ran a thumb across his knuckles, gently, soothing. It took him a while to come up with an answer to the unspoken question. "Sherlock", he said, "You turned out great. Fantastic. Brilliant. Caring. Loved."

"You're biased."

"Of course. I'm smitten."

At that, Sherlock turned to him and a smile flickered across his face. Just a hint, but John was determined to nurture that spark. He placed his hand over Sherlock's and squeezed it. "You know what they say about happy childhoods?"

"No?"

"It's never too late to have one."

"That's rubbish, John", Sherlock said but laughed when John burrowed into him and underneath his coat in the back seat of the car.  
  
  


* * *

  
Victoria Rose Herst found her final resting place a few days later. She was interred on the family plot, and Sherlock suspected half the village and most of her extended family attended. As funerals went, it was one of the happier ones, the homecoming of a family member nobody even knew about, the return of a lost child. Even in death, she was received with much love and attention, something Sherlock understood from the way John's hand stole inside his coat and held on to Sherlock's hand, and the way his eyes watered along with everyone else's. The rest of the reception was spent with Sherlock narrowing his eyes at most of the Herst family, and John suspected he deduced they all had several skeletons in their respective closets. And so, they excused themselves from the rest of the celebration (a celebration it was) to return to the cottage, even though the Herst family urged them to stay, but John shook everyone's hands earnestly, accepted thanks, and ushered his husband out the door. Sherlock smiled at him in the back of the cab. "Priorities", John said, looking straight ahead, "We are on our honeymoon after all."  
  
And John did enjoy the rest of it, really, he did. He even used the running trail a couple of times. It probably was the most relaxing vacation he'd ever had, long days at the beach or on the terrace, they made love whenever they felt like it, ate when they were hungry and slept when they were tired. London seemed very far away. Nothing at all happened, and that was actually a good thing. Until, one day, during his noon nap on the terrace, something weird blotted out the sun, a humongous shape. Startled, he dove to the side and to cover and only then realized it was Sherlock, done up in what? A beekeeper's suit? Really?

"Sherlock?"

"It's a surprise", Sherlock said. "You sleep so much I thought I should find... You know. A hobby."

"A hobby."

"Yes."

"A hobby."

"John. Have you hurt your head?" Sherlock extended a gloved hand and pulled him upright. "I acquired a pet. Or rather, several hundred."

"Bees."

Sherlock's smile was visible even through the face plate. 

"No, that's nice. I guess." John glanced past Sherlock and at the box that looked brand new. "Did you build that? When did you build that?"

"My great-uncle's hives were hopelessly rotten. And yes. You do sleep a lot, John."

"You built a beehive and then what?"

"Remember the bees when we found Vicky?"

"Of course I do."

"Well, I couldn't stop thinking they probably never found a place as suitable as the hollow tree, and that we took that option from them. I tracked them down and transferred them."

"That's great. Can I approach?"

"They're pretty upset still, but yes, I guess. Be careful."

John stepped closer and admired the craftsmanship, the wood was put together expertly and held without glue. "No glue."

"Of course no glue."

"Where did you learn carpentry?"

"Why, here, obviously."

"While I was asleep."

"It's not rocket science", Sherlock said and sounded awfully smug.

"What are you going to do with them when we return to London?"

Though it was hard to see through the netting, Sherlock's face seemed to cloud over. Apparently, he hadn't thought about going back to London for several days now.

"You can't take them with you."

"No, but one of our neighbors is a beekeeper. She volunteered to take care of them when I'm not here. It's not that they need a lot of care. She says it's a wild strain."

"So, you built a bee hive, befriended a neighbour and caught wild bees. You did all that while I slept."

"Well, when you say befriend..." Finally, Sherlock took off the veil and faceplate, and his hair spilled from the hat. He was flushed and tousled in a way that made John's mouth run dry. "Like I said, you do sleep a lot. I hate to tell you this, but it does get boring to watch you sleep after a few days."  
And at that, John couldn't help himself, he flung himself at Sherlock and kissed him. "You idiot", he murmured. And then: "What a great idea. And quite a surprise. So, we're going to have our own honey next year."

"If all goes well, yes", smiled Sherlock. "Probably quite a lot. The hive has a rather big super for honey."

"I'll think of alternative uses for honey until then", John said and kissed him some more.

 

* * *

  
These were summer days like back then when he was a child, John thought, endless days filled with the sound of the sea and sun and the occasional rain. Completely carefree. Sherlock, to John's satisfaction, even gained some weight. Eventually, the decision to go back to London wasn't made but rather came to them one morning when it felt like the natural thing to do. During breakfast, Sherlock ran a hand across John's cheek and jaw when he went past him to the kitchen, and John blinked - they had become a couple. 

To Sherlock, the time at the cottage slipped away already, he felt it recede into the past. One more time, they took the path to the knoll and sat on the fallen tree overlooking the sea, Sherlock's arm securely around John's shoulder. Neither spoke. Sherlock tried to memorize all of this, the scent of John next to him, sun-scented and salty from the spray, the way his hair bristled against his throat. Remembering was one thing though. This was the last day of their honeymoon. At that, his throat closed and his breath caught, and his grip on John tightened. John, who drew back and looked at him, concern and a question in his eyes. The trick wasn't to evade his eyes, Sherlock thought, the trick was not to care so much that you had something that showed in them. Mycroft had taught him that, and what a valuable lesson that had been. Don't care so much. Better not attach yourself to anything or anyone. Only now he had, with all the consequences, and it tightened in his chest and in his throat and he knew it showed. John, his smart, wonderful John, didn't have to be told. He nodded once. Settled against him and into Sherlock's embrace, and looked out to the sea. And without that regard on him, Sherlock nuzzled closer and breathed against John's temple. Closed his eyes. Thought of nothing for a while.

"Home?", one of them said.

"Yes", said the other.


End file.
